The Folly of Man
by BrimstoneVomit
Summary: An original story set in the Grim Dawn universe (game in open alpha/beta as of this story's inception), giving the perspectives of various characters before, during and after the titular "Grim Dawn" event.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Donnell drew a deep breath after relaxing his arm, cigar in hand. The smoke wasn't calming him today. He sat in a lonely room, large beyond the standards of any landowner, his hind quarters and back aching from prolonged ruminating in the cold metal seat.

Before him was the apparatus dreamed up by his mentor, Dr. Tobias Kestrem. It was a surreal machine - towers of metal springs, conductive orbs and an endless lattice of wires. The air hung heavily about it, seeming to draw gravity tightly into its perimeter. Even as it was switched off, and days after the last experimental run, its idle use of power still made it very much alive.

Dr. Tobias was a genius, Donnell thought, someone he admired to no end. Electricity was still a work in progress when it came to public access, yet the objects in this chamber belied the primitive state of technology on Cairn. Centuries of advancement was sitting before Donnell, endlessly humming a morbid tune. This was Dr. Tobias' work, his crowning achievement. Never mind the rows of crystalline, man-sized tubes that outlined the chamber walls – these were just precautions, though of what use they could serve Donnell hadn't the foggiest.

Donnell, merely a student, lived a meager life before this appointment. Living in the cramped half of a duplex cottage in Hatherton, a respectably large township near the coast northeast of Malmouth and the Empire proper by more than a week of grueling land travel, he spent his entire youth tinkering with metal wire and crude batteries that required charging directly from lightning strikes. His family was none too thrilled with his hobbies, yet they earned him a place in a circle of diviners that seek progression in science.

Alone in this chamber, he was proud of the achievements before him, yet he was responsible for none of them. Even the three test-runs Tobias had executed previously did not include his presence. It was a large matter of patience and subtle requests that eventually allowed the student to gain audience to the task at hand. As of yet, Donnell still didn't understand the nature of the task at all, which calculated into part of the thrill.

A thundering echo rolled through the great stone room as another person entered and closed the reinforced door behind them.

"So, I suppose this is what you do for fun now," the burly voice of the Guard Captain teased.

Donnell took another drag of his cigar, feigning ignorance toward the visitor as he stared at the grotesque machine.

"More fun than hacking at a stuffed potato sack with your recruits, Efrim" Donnell retorted. "And I don't suppose you have clearance to be here?"

"Ne'er did well asking for permission," Efrim chuckled, his uniform ring mail jangling as he teetered on his heels like an impatient child.

Donnell finally broke his gaze on the machine and looked over his shoulder, taking in his friend's silly posture. "You never did well with anything," he playfully shot back, "not unless you count bossing me around and making girls eat slugs when we were ten."

Efrim cocked his head in concession, beaming from ear to ear. Donnell's face turned more serious then.

"I bet the Empire wouldn't take kindly to you snooping around in their laboratory," Donnell warned as he turned back to the machine.

"Piss on the Empire," Efrim said, annoyed. "Since when did you care about them suits anyway? We're days away from them even by boat, the only thing they have in connection with you is the money they sank into these gadgets. The rest is all in your hands!"

Donnell shook his head. "Dr. Tobias' hands," he corrected. "And he's paying for my new private home, plus all the expensive meals I'm treating Lucile to. So, I care."

Efrim smirked and shook his head. The machine suddenly loosed a deep cracking sound, a heavy pop of static electricity that had been welling from its idleness and discharged spontaneously. Surprised, Efrim gestured toward the device as though to inquire, but upon seeing his friend's stoic response he decided to leave well enough alone. Moments pass, neither of the childhood schoolmates gracing the time with words.

"How is Lucile?" Efrim finally asked, more to break the eery silence than to make small talk.

"She's well," Donnell answered, taking another drag from his cigar.

He no longer tried to connect further with his friend. His eyes were firmly in place, gazing on the contraption. His companion sensed the growing divide between Donnell's focus on the thing and his periphery, uncomfortable with the level of obsession. What did it matter to the budding scientist anyway? The machine was completely his mentor's creation; Donnell was more on par with a glorified minion.

Then Efrim remembered the news he meant to impart to his friend, or better yet his mentor if he was available.

"By the way," he began after clearing his throat, "I'm to bring word that group of Inquisitors will be arriving from the capital any day now."

Donnell took another puff of his cigar and laughed as the smoke seethed out between his teeth. "And here I thought you said the Empire was so far away from our affairs?" he goaded.

Efrim scowled. "I said they were days away by sail," he retorted venomously. "And they are setting sail today. True to my word, they will be here in three days' time."

Donnell's eyebrows cocked, unsurprised at the news and uncaring of why he must know. Inquisitors may be a deathly sight for many citizens in lower rungs of society, especially if they looked the part of cultists or have reportedly come into contact with any. For scientists, and more importantly those who hold a high station in their locale, an Inquisitor was at worst a foreboding presence, suggesting that malicious forces had nested in their surroundings. The men themselves were hardly a concern.

As the Guard Captain saw that his friend was unperturbed, he added a final piece that he thought would be otherwise irrelevant.

"They will be accompanied by The Flail."

Donnell's expression distorted as expected this time, if only for a brief second. The Flail was nearly a living legend in the Empire's employ. Unable to become an Inquisitor due to his past impurities, he is instead famed as one of very few reformed "witch hunters" - men and women who were taken by the occult in their youth who willingly gave their hearts back to the material world in its defense. Learned in the ways of summoning and chaotic energies, these witch hunters are trained by the guild of Nightblades to develop skills of stealth and secrecy. Whether purposed for assassination or infiltration or both, these people were the Inquisitors' prized weapons against unwanted elements.

But Donnell was unconvinced of this particular tool's legend. "The Flail" seemed a pretentious branding and wholly contradictory to the purpose of witch hunters - why give him a name that is meant to publicly evoke fear when he is meant to be an unseen spectre? He scoffed, flicking his cigar and kicking the small pile of ashes accruing by his foot across the stone floor.

He wasn't impressed at all, and Efrim noticed.

"Think what you want," he began in warning, "just don't let him catch you staring."

He held out a sealed missive to Donnell. But the young scientist wouldn't grasp it, instead gazing eerily at the machine, ideas of anomalous nature dancing between his ears as the world around him coalesced into a tunnel of incomprehensible echoes. Efrim then dropped the letter into his lap and left without another word.

He feared for his friend, for even though he knew the contents of that message relayed a benign purpose to investigate growing suspicions of Ch'thonian cultist activity, he also knew the Inquisitors' distrust of strange new sciences and such strange behavior that Donnell has been exhibiting. Oh, he most certainly feared for his poor, entranced friend.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Jefferson was a terrible shot with a pistol.

A ringed, circular target three feet in diameter stood at shoulder height only 10 yards away. Most bullets never made the target at all, yet it was those rare flukes that hit an inner ring that made Jefferson bite his lip hard in frustration. Why must my marksmanship be that of luck? he wondered. Worse than the souring of his pride was that of his father's; the old iron derringer was a gift, passed down as far back as his great-grandfather.

Conceding that his practice was over, the young lordling holstered the beleaguered old gun and marched away from the target range behind his home. Reaching the back porch of his family's estate, he sat beside his father, Willem, who Jefferson felt fortunate for being unable to see his incompetency through the copse of lush evergreens. But Willem still knew, for he was a gunman of especially well-trained ears that could judge where the bullets hit, or didn't hit.

The gristly middle-aged man appeared old beyond his years, now especially that he wore a pained grimace after judging his son's ability with the derringer. He had given up teaching the boy months ago. He'd even passed on his right to criticize, finding nothing new to contribute or berate as the case may be. All that was left was the sorry look on his face every time he heard gunfire coming from the woods behind his home.

Such was his shame that he often tried to avoid Jefferson.

"I'm going down to the mill," Willem declared just as Jefferson collapsed in the rocking chair beside his. "Plenty of work to be done now that the harvest is starting. Workers need their foreman."

Bullshit, Jefferson thought, but he wouldn't argue. Maybe his father wasn't an unloving one at all times, but when he chose avoidance over bonding when it came to guns there was nothing he'd rather accept than privacy. A father kept stationary against his will was a cold conversation indeed, and the bitterness only dissolved more rapidly if he was allowed to abandon the scene as desired. Jefferson finally conceded that any attempt at talking in these moments was no more than a passive argument.

He said nothing, tucking his lips and nodding as he forced his rocking chair into its natural sway. Willem's rocking continued a few seconds more in delay until he stopped himself suddenly and launched to his feet to leave. Anyone unknowing of the man would assume his long, lanky strides were exaggerated for frustration, but Jefferson knew they were natural. They still left him to wonder how exactly he expressed himself sometimes – if not for childlike ruinous behaviors, most folk would never be able to communicate their less proud temperaments.

Jefferson sat alone for some time, spending mere minutes pondering the subject before feeling content and able to enjoy the natural sounds of the outdoors. When the day reached high noon he left his estate and sauntered into town, the humble Burrwitch, even more pleasantly taken by the sounds of windmill sweeps, industrial thumping and clanging, and the sweet din of a hundred and more townsfolk in conversation.

His path seemingly aimless, Jefferson carefully directed his leisurely stroll until the head constable called him from his usual post.

"Lad! 'Ere Lad!" the casual sheriff hollered from under the aging wooden awning of his favorite bakery.

Jefferson struggled to hide a grin as he took the invitation with haste. He sat beside the square-shouldered man, excited to be recognized once again by someone of import. More still, he knew their conversation would be regarding a manner of initiation that even his father wouldn't have the means – or desire – to organize.

"There's a good lad," his host, Deacon, said to the young man while breaking a hunk of potato bread and offering it with a saucer of thick honeyed cream. "Share a brunch with me; we need to discuss the coming hunt!"

He said it with a certain joy, the word "hunt." It was that giddy anticipation that one had discovered a mythical white stag and sought to bring its hide and antlers home for all to admire. That feeling of youth when a simple squirrel blown clear in half would not provide meal enough for a toddler, but the thrill of a first kill still brought its ugly corpse home with pride. This was the projected vision for Jefferson, a boy of 17, and not for Deacon himself.

Deacon was normally a well-composed man, reasonably proper, or at least professional when his station demanded it so. Yet he took a liking to this young man, if only at first for a bit of recognition with one of the more important land-owners. The Shodrick family was a small dynasty by most reckonings, but they were perceived as infinitely greater when the county needed its grain. Farmsteads were few in the family; they instead capitalized on refining and distribution. When one thought of flour and the barrels it comes in, they never fail to notice the branding of a stonetusk's head, the family sigil.

But having powerful friends became less important over time. Following his first meeting, the boy only 9 years old at the time, Deacon steadily became complacent with his lot in life. Power, he noticed, maintained a delicate grey area between the points of being under everyone's boot, and snowballing into greed and corruption. When he rose from a constable to the township's recognized sheriff, the world seemed right as rain; he wielded power and the naturally stringent responsibilities made him feel human still.

Jefferson was soon a good friend, in the honest sense, as he grew into his teens. Once the boy started using curved branches as imaginary pistols and rifles, Deacon embraced a juvenile delight that he would soon be bonding with an equal of interests.

And he too knew the lad still couldn't fire a pistol worth spit. But unlike Jefferson's father, Deacon only laughed in enjoyment, free of condescending.

"When are we setting out?" Jefferson asked, his expression making obvious that this conversation was his entire reason for leaving the house.

"That's hard to say," Deacon said, shrugging. "We can't very well do it on our own, and it's been hard getting other worthwhile folk to commit." He tore a small piece of his bread and consumed after dipping it in the saucer of sweet cream, his lips smacking heavily while chewing the viscous glaze. "And then we need to put together the supplies. Can't get everything ready without being sure the food won't spoil and the water turn musty before we set out!"

Jefferson nodded with an even face, understanding the precautions despite his boyish impatience. "Who do we want to come along?" he asked after some inactive thought to eating his own bread.

"Not too many folk," Deacon answered immediately, "can't scare away the prey like a thundering stampede now, can we?" He took another bite of his bread, dry this time. "I know I can wrangle two of my best constables up easily enough – it's our business anyway." He pondered while swallowing his food. "I asked the harbormaster's brother, Harris, and he seems interested. Good with a gun, better with an axe. Then there's Ol' Cullen Duprie, but only out of necessity – couldn't wait for the old badger to retire as sheriff so I didn't have to hear his shit anymore!"

Jefferson laughed at the remark. But he also knew that, despite the old policeman's gnarly temperament, Cullen Duprie was still a masterful fighter despite his age and could prove a valuable companion.

"Matilda would be a good choice – I should ask her today," Deacon continued with a spry voice. "Sure, she's an archaic wench that likes to use bows an' arrows, but the woman can probably hit a sparrow a mile in the sky. Think of how easily she could put one of them arrows between a man's eyes."

"Any others?" Jefferson urged, pausing only to cringe at the deadly imagery.

Deacon thought for a moment and perked. "Ah! The blacksmith, Bondrey. He's volunteered to come along and bring his bear traps. Anyone charging at us would meet a messy affair with that man in tow."

The sheriff thought on it some more, shaking his head after he found no more names to give. "I think that's all. The hardest part is arranging the day. It's hard when you don't know whether it will last an afternoon or a week."

Jefferson nodded again, this time only slightly. And gravely. The talk reminded him that this hunt was for no animal. There had been a prison break down south in Devil's Crossing, two dangerous men free in the wilds. Since then a handful of townsfolk had gone missing, but none due to capture. A band of six or more bandits had formed in the last month, opportunists looking for easy coin. Thus far they were succeeding, flexing their muscles and flashing steel as according to their simple plan. But although their activities were few and relatively nonviolent, a member of their group attracts too much attention to be left alone, and that man made this excursion a "hunt" in the true character of the word.

"Might you have a word or two for Will?" Deacon asked, sensing that this young comrade's thoughts turned sour.

"No," Jefferson replied coldly, dropping the food offered to him on the table with no interest of eating. "Just a bullet to the knee and a swift bludgeon to the head to get his senses back."

"He's still your cousin," Deacon reminded.

"I know," the now-defensive teenager snapped. "Doesn't save him though. My father won't vouch for him – wouldn't be able to keep him out of prison if he tried."

"We can keep him here, though," the sheriff proposed. "We have three unused jail cells beneath the town hall. Sure as hell would keep him from being shanked in that institution, though he'll scarcely get to stretch his legs."

Jefferson's face contorted, a manner of cold indifference about it. "Doesn't matter to me either way. I don't have respect for him anymore."

Deacon didn't say any more on the matter, but gave an exaggerated nod in attempt to break the tension. He hoisted from his seat and left the remainder of his bread alongside the piece he offered Jefferson. With a stretch of his back and rolling of his shoulders, Deacon fastened his sheathed sword back to his belt and turned to leave. Looking over his shoulder, he had one more thing to say to the boy.

"Time to head out on patrol. I'll make sure to talk to your dad again. I know he'll come around today."

Jefferson's mood eased as he let free a small chuckle. "Father's not defensive," he said straightforwardly, assuming his friend's rationalization of why Willem was hesitant to let him go. "He just doesn't think I'm capable enough."

Deacon smiled. "Aye, but you are, lad," he encouraged. "That old gunslinger just doesn't realize you have great talents otherwise. You ought to show him someday."

"It'll be a surprise," Jefferson said, eyeing his friend to urge conclusion and parting for the day.

He stood and left the food behind half an hour after Deacon left, only nibbling on the hardening bread. His path home led him through the waterfront where the bustle of business was at its peak for the day. There was a strange calm, he noticed, and the arrangement of the workers and travelers seemed definitive in his periphery. He carefully looked by the docks to see the interruption, catching sight of a small group of stern men.

"Inquisitors," a small elderly man said, noticing Jefferson's interest. "They come from Malmouth, setting sail northbound I reckon."

"Something wrong on Frostleaf Isle?" Jefferson wondered aloud.

"Doubtful. Methinks they'll turn east out of the bay. The towns that way are more their concern." They both pondered why they wouldn't have sailed out of Malmouth itself, the old man offering a thought first. "Must want this to be a quiet affair. Word spreads strangely fast in Malmouth Harbor."

They didn't speak to each other anymore, watching intently at the grim sight of the Imperial agents. One of them was overdressed, a heavy grey cloak and cowl concealing his – or her – entire form. Damn hot today for such heavy dress, Jefferson thought. Though the burdening clothes amused him, he also couldn't help but feel an instinctive dread. The person accompanied the Inquisitors, after all, and what more terrible than an Inquisitor would be so secretive? The concept knotted his stomach, only knowing that the group would be sailing soon brought comfort.

Upon reaching home Jefferson inspected the grounds. His mother was away, presumably at the market, and his father hadn't returned from supervising the mill. Siblings had already grown out of home, none poking around to visit today.

Confident that none of his family was present, he exited the estate and returned to the back porch. Grasping a flat stone, he pried a specific board loose from the deck and lifted it, revealing a splendid rifle, hand-made from aged oakwood and steel. Jefferson brandished the weapon, left its stubby magazine in the hiding place and loaded a single round into its chamber. With a quick and sure slap of the bolt to close its chamber, he spun around and aimed the barrel toward the woods.

Jefferson exhaled slowly, envisioning the moment he would look down its sights on his first hunt, the faint smell of its wooden stock richening his senses. "Longbow," he called the instrument, and often took as an alias in his imagination.

The scene was before him in his mind, and minutes seemed to pass in the space of a second as he squeezed the trigger and received the recoil. Satisfied, he packed the rifle away and went back into the house, unsurprised that if he examined the target, more than 50 yards behind the concealing branches of evergreen, he would have found the round's resting place precisely at its center.

As it truthfully was.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The waves of Boulder Bay lapped calmly against the copper-plated hull of the Weeping Wight as it held steady five nautical miles south of the sea, anchor lowered and sails reefed. Its captain, Jecca Dustov, stood beneath the foresails, staring inland down the bow of the ship. They weren't far from Malmouth, well in sight of the city to its southwest, and had only stopped there in the last hour. Too much longer would have drawn suspicion of the city's harbor master and deckhands of passing vessels.

A crew of twenty-eight manned this three-mast schooner. There was room enough for bunking typically, though quarters were cramped at the best of times – when their payload happened to be too large for their hold to contain everything. It wasn't a dire sacrifice if one surrendered their bunk to accommodate more cargo, for they dealt in expensive goods, or at the very least items that boasted a high turnover.

The few maritime authorities that knew of the Weeping Wight and its crew considered them pirates, which is not an unfair assessment; Captain Dustov had plundered a ship or two in his tenure. However the most prolific of their activities was the act of smuggling. Many would be surprised to learn that their cargo was typically benign in nature, taking on wholesale foods from farmers that disliked watching their harvest become taxed extensively before reaching citizens' tables. The landowners of Homestead were among the ship's favorite clients, who in the meantime gain possession of controlled goods from the mountain tribes of men and half-trolls. A great many hallucinogenic plants had passed from one end of the bay to another, sometimes abroad to the coastal settlements along the sea.

This was a time for rest, though. Jecca stood in wait while his landing crew of two dinghies, each carrying three sailors, cut farther south and east to the shores below Burrwitch's Waterfront district. Their last haul had secured a moderate wealth, delivering a shipment of onions, leeks, radishes and – most profitable of all – the last harvest of potatoes this year. The village of Brimley's Watch thanked the band of smugglers, well aware of their vocation, for a bounty they couldn't hope to produce themselves on the frigid Frostleaf Isle. While gold was also in short supply, they were able to pay a modest sum in coin and bartered the rest in fish and clean drinking water from their hot spring, a quality far cleaner than what Boulder Bay's communities could pump out of their rivers and bogs.

With half the coin they made from the journey, the dinghies would return with two months' supply of salted meats and cheese, and a generous stash of alcohol. From there, the Weeping Wight would sail west to Homestead to offload its bounty of fish and spring water, bringing aboard a better take of coin with barrels of wheat and barley flour for baking. From there they may attempt another smuggling run if the bargain presented itself, but most likely they would stow away behind Firebug Isle, mooring in the calm waters just offshore from the fields of Homestead for the winter. From there, the crew often divides into those who stay aboard for a winter on the frozen cove and those who live ashore, freelancing as hunters and tavern hands.

Jecca considered this, another year of status quo, and exhaled a relieved smile. As pirates and smugglers go, the captain and crew of this vessel are a surprisingly patient and discreet lot. Once our hold of coin accrues greatly enough, Jecca thought, then we can retire and live the good lives in our own estates somewhere.

"Daydreaming again?" a grainy female voice probed.

The captain grinned, closing his eyes as his hearing returned to the material world around him, listening to the idle preparations of crewmembers instead of the rustling of grain fields he perceives his future to hold. Yes, very much daydreaming, he thought.

The scrawny woman stepped closer to her captain and gazed at him deliberately, coaxing him to return the favor. When he turned to face her and their eyes met, she chortled playfully and flicked his nose with her index finger. Jecca winced and laughed gratefully, happy to see Charlotte, his favorite crewmember and once-lover.

"I asked you a question, cap'n," she insisted.

"Aye, you did," he answered, refusing her the satisfaction. "And how about answering mine?"

Charlotte's eyebrows furrowed, confused. "Y'never asked me a damn thing, cap'n," she countered, "don't you be playin' these games with me again!"

"But I like games. Especially games where I win and you look a damn fool!" He almost retracted the statement, but Charlotte knew that it was in jest and rapped his rigid captain's hat.

They paused their banter to notice a sailor watching them, one wary of their friendship and the complications it had brought in the past and may well bring again.

"To my cabin," Jecca whispered, but Charlotte threw her arm out and waved at the watching sailor, unashamed.

"Top o' the mornin', Farlow!" she gleefully greeted, an obnoxious gesture for someone she'd bunked in close quarters with for three years now, and had even greeted earlier already.

Jecca shook his head slightly, embarrassed. "It's late afternoon," he corrected. "Now come with me."

The two strode intently toward the aft of the ship and sauntered into the captain's quarters under the poop deck. Jecca flung his hat onto his desk and, unsatisfied with its soft landing, pulled the telescope from his jacket's inner pocket and dropped it heavily next to the hat, glad for its stern impact.

"I wish you wouldn't be so gods-damned public about us, Charlie," he groaned, slumping into his cushioned wooden chair that smelled of fine lacquer and wheeled it under the desk.

The girl's face buttoned up, trying to feign defensiveness. "Ah c'mon, wot's there to be 'shamed of?" she snapped, a hint of laughter in her voice. Jecca's fingers curled into fists to signify his frustration. "We're bloody smugglers 'n' pirates, cap'n! Wot image are we hav'n to save?"

The captain pounded his desk, restraining himself from using the full strength of his tension in respect to his companion. "Stop talking like that!" he said sharply, keeping his voice lower than his disposition suggested. "You sound a damn fool!"

The young woman softened her stance, joking as it may have been in the first place, and slid into a more humble wooden chair in front of the large desk, avoiding eye contact for the moment. Jecca bit his lower lip, angry at himself for scolding the girl, then hurriedly pulled out a bottle and tin cup from a drawer by his knees. He poured himself a hard drink and quaffed it immediately, a grimace on his face while he poured another helping and gently set it before his lady friend.

"I'm sorry, Lady Charlotte," he offered as she somberly accepted the cup and sipped. "I suppose it ain't worth much, but you've still some manner of decency and upbringing above the rest of us. I expect that much of you."

Charlotte's nostrils flared from an angry chuckle. "My upbringing would demand you to be hanged," she said coldly. "Raising your voice to me would be the cherry on top of the tart, wouldn't it?"

Jecca relaxed then, humored into a smile. But Charlotte's intensity didn't wane in unison. Instead she continued to sip the cup of hard liquor, moderate and accustomed enough that her face didn't twist from its dry bitterness. She was one of longest-tenured members of the crew, five years aboard the vessel that was once named the Harried Horsewife. But even she wasn't the first to join when her current captain had taken the duty upon himself; only the ambitious and opportunistic of her company were willing at first.

But that was an age ago it seemed, and even Jecca and his brother, who was immediately proclaimed the first mate, found her partnership on their leisurely voyage to be a natural fit. Jecca spun in his rotating chair and looked out the panoramic view of his quarters' windows.

"Another hour before they're back, or more?" he asked the woman's opinion.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. "You're not even looking in the right direction," she criticized, downing the last little bit of the beverage.

"Doesn't matter," he said plainly. "I like the view, and it makes me think of the men either way."

Her eyes rolled again, surprised to find herself less sentimental than her male counterpart. "It may be a whole day again," she finally answered. "Remember two autumns ago?"

Jecca chortled dreamily. "The bastards were drunk as could be," he recalled heartily. "We were all lucky they didn't tip the boats and lose the food on their way back the next morning."

"I don't find it as funny," Charlotte said in a low scold. "Petra was part of that landing party. It doesn't bode well when our first mate is lacking discipline in the face of bawdyhouses and cheap drinks."

Jecca finished his laughing, readily admitting the foolish behavior of his brother but no less humored by the incident. He waited a few moments for the air to clear. "I suppose you'd fancy yourself a first mate in his place?" he asked with honesty.

"I would," she answered. Charlotte didn't hesitate, though her tone and timing suggested she would take Petra's place for a plethora of reasons aside from his unsavory exploits.

Because in truth she still loved the captain, wanted to be close to him, and always looking for ways to impress him. She felt this way all the more while believing it was unrequited, unable to see the glint in Jecca's eyes as he made his jokes. Grown adults as they both were, their manner of expression would barely pass one's expectation of a child who must be told "use your words." Even in the entanglement of true romance, short-lived as it was, they were trapped in a sea of inconsistent body language.

Jecca nodded slowly at the answer, still looking out the panoramic windows. He could almost interpret her intent, but failed as he always did in the end.

"You'd make a fine first mate," he conceded. "Woe that it cannot be; Petra would either need to be dead or a deserter. But you're next in line."

"Not likely," she answered surely, a chip of ice in her tone. "It's not very traditional having a woman as a first mate, anyway."

Jecca leaned back in his chair, bellowed a laugh and swiveled around to face her. "Piss on tradition!" he declared while pounding his desk. "And piss on any sailor that wouldn't follow your lead!"

Charlotte's lips pursed as she subdued a smile, yet her blushing cheeks were unable to hide the joy she took from the suggestion. Through and through he was a gentleman, she thought, regardless of the vocabulary he chose to flaunt.

A sailor rapped twice on the door and let himself in without response, a sense of urgency and excitement in his eyes.

"Sir, a ship is leaving Burrwitch harbor!" he hurriedly proclaimed.

The two looked at the huffing sailor, Jecca far more concerned with the behavior than the news itself. "Ships do tend to enter and leave harbors, Jeremy," he said, bemused.

"But captain!" the urgent sailor insisted. "It's an Imperial vessel, and there's no mention of it on the port charters!"

Again Jecca dismissed him. "It's an Empire affair. Since when do they have to play by the same rules?" He thoughtlessly snatched the tin cup back from Charlotte and poured himself more liquor. "Those charters are merely the docking rights for private vessels to do their business. Regulatory, you see."

There were other holes in the logic as well. As useful as Petra's connections were, obtaining a new copy of the major harbors' charters would occasionally prove next to useless in the long run. Aside from researching the potential targets for plunder - of which actions had never been done in this, a strategized, manner - Jecca found the resource more interesting for using periods of low activity to slip into the region and do their smuggling. Still, the charters were updated on a nearly daily basis, as empty allotments may yet be claimed by shippers of profitable import.

The sailor didn't argue, but his face suggested that he wasn't convinced, and he wouldn't leave of his own accord - he simply stood, gawking. Surely he witnessed something which wracked his nerves through the telescope he still held.

With a groan of tedium, Jecca stood to follow the worried sailor outside, leaving his freshly-poured drink aside without so much as a sip. Upon the bow, the captain snatched Jeremy's own telescope instead of using his own, intending to keep it if the subject proved to be as harmless as it sounded.

Panning the scene, he centered on the ship in question and noticed, first of all, its sails. The main royal sail did indeed fly the sigil of the Empire, but emblazoned on both the fore topgallant and gaff mainsail of this small brigantine was the insignia of the Inquisition, a brotherhood of the most fearful Imperial agents in public knowledge. Jecca now understood the man's distress, but relaxed as he watched it sail northwest out of the harbor. It was headed for the sea, he surmised.

"We could catch it," suggested an arrogant crew member who was missing most of his teeth. His captain's expression slumped while still looking through the spyglass, apparently dismissive of the idea. "What? We'd blow 'em out of th' water with cannonfire! Few less Ghoulies will do th' world a favor!"

Captain Dustov wouldn't argue the purpose, noting the common derogatory alias many people gave the Inquisitors. Indeed, they seemed to fancy themselves spectres of some fearful nature, and they do seem to feed from the fear they successfully evoke. But the end result would prove most unfortunate. Assuming the smaller - and quicker - vessel didn't immediately rush to board their ship in retaliation and lead to their hopeless slaughter, the destruction of any person or vehicle of the Inquisition brought a particular vengeance upon the assailants. He recalled stories of a caravan escorting a single of these malignant agents, and how bandits had ransacked it and left everyone dead upon the burning cart. Days later, that same band of outlaws was found, each member bound to a tree, their flesh etched with symbols of witchery and their bodies charred by righteous flame.

"No," Jecca answered calmly. Most of his men who heard the conversation were somewhat relieved. "We'll stay right here and wait for our landing party."

Without dignifying the toothless crewmember with another word or glance, he collapsed the spyglass and handed it back to its owner.

"Thank you for the report, Jeremy. Watch for Petra and the supplies."

Jecca left the bowsprit behind, re-entering his cabin where he would stay for the rest of the remaining daylight after dismissing Charlotte from his audience. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts for a time.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Rhowari caravan stopped a mile outside of a fragile palisade wall, other the top of which one could see the tanned leather caps of yurts. The inhabitants of this village were once Rhowari themselves, however the lifestyle and belief has proven difficult and tedious for certain tender members of the faith. A small group of the modern-day "rovers" had splintered from their caravan two decades ago to found this, a rickety hamlet called Rhowan's Rest.

Around this new settlement the former rovers evolved a new faith, offering a conclusion to the endless wandering of their vagabond origins. They claim that Rhowan, though lauded as a prophet, was no god, and age had inevitably set upon him. In keeping with the warnings the former king received prior to his departure from Arkovia, he founded a camp in which no one may claim title or ownership. Where this camp was located no one of the new faith knew, it had apparently dissolved after his eventual death.

This foundation of yurts and tents was located at least two days' travel from any major township, Malmouth to the west and then southwest, and Pearl Peak to the northeast, another proper city with Hatherton several miles away to fulfill its agricultural needs. Rhowan's Rest was set inland by four miles, well inside a forest which absorbs the powerful ocean breezes. The woods here were not dense and the few trees that initially stood in the town's way were cut for firewood and what little lumber was needed to erect the housing.

Fenrick, typically called "Fen," was only 11 years of age this day, a boy unfamiliar with the settlement that his elders observed with much ire. His understanding of their ways was basic, and the differences were basic indeed, yet he also observed for himself that the mutual belief in pacifism held true on both sides of the palisade walls before them.

"We aren't friends," Humbrey, Fen's caretaker since he was orphaned eight years ago, warned him. "We stop, observe our own customs, resupply, and move on."

"Do we rest the night?" the precarious boy asked.

"Nay child, we finish our business before nightfall." Fen stared at his feet as they continued walking, glad to be within sight of their next destination. It's been a long stretch, these past three days, but such was the life that his people insisted upon.

"Remember our words?" Humbrey asked, eyeing his ward carefully. Fen raised his head, face straining as he tried to remember. "Life is a journey," Humbrey began, unwilling to wait for a response. "If we settle, we are dead."

Such words were obviously symbolic, not even universal will all Rhowari clans, but they still set a morbid tone for the young lad. The concept of death was far from obscure to his understanding - in fact it was so serious that we was unable to extract metaphors from its usage.

How could it be? Fen wondered, the village of clearly living people before him as its antithesis. Soon they were upon the gates and its guards, armed and armored in only the most ramshackle of gear, swung the entrance open for them to enter. Fen didn't pay attention to their posture or the subtle hints in their faces, his youth making interpretation difficult, so he immediately found the prompt reception to be a sign of strictly good faith. And rightly so, as the only disdain these settlers feel is the reciprocity expected from the rovers' discrimination.

Inside of the permanent camp it appeared larger than expected, evident of the occasional desertion of other Rhowari caravan members over the years. The accumulation was apparently expected, as the wall was built to contain almost double the current structures and population. Whether or not this space would indeed be filled by permanent immigrants, the free space provided excellent parking for the carts and horses of passing rovers.

A stout man greeted them in their temporary quarters, a serious face and posture overall, yet he managed a grin and ruffled Fen's ear-length auburn hair as he came close. The man acted as an emissary and welcomed the clan's leaders, his words and tone carefully receptive. He was met mostly with silence until Dustin, the unofficial leader of the caravan, engaged him in a low, monotone voice. He conveyed the supplies needed and expectations of their stay - including the time of their departure - and was met by a series of nods before the stout man hobbled off to set the trade in motion.

It was barely early afternoon and it seemed like the barter would be completely long before their plan to set off at dusk. Which is fortunate, as it gave them the opportunity to gain some distance from the camp before settling the night for sleep, though it was probable they would continue traveling and sleep in shifts on the less burdened carts.

While the time passed, Fen saw fit to break away and explore, taking care that Humbrey didn't notice his sudden absence. He approached the tent and campfire of a couple, middle-aged, possibly married in a sense. They were tattooed, full sleeves of archaic writing busying their sagging, skinny arms.

"What does it say," Fen asked timidly, pointing. "On your arms?"

The man looked up and allowed a faint grin to cross his lips. "They are the words of our tribe," he answered coolly. "They say, 'We are of the King. We are of his soil'." Fenrick looked confused. "It means that we still follow the way of King Rhowan and that we have accepted this place for our deathbed, as did he when he came of old age."

"That's a lot of writing for a short phrase," Fen observed.

The woman then smiled and offered her answer. "It's in the language of Old Arkovia. They were more lengthy and poetic in their words."

"How did you write it?" Fen asked, unfamiliar with the concept of permanent tattoos.

The male spoke again. "Very slowly, and carefully!" he said with strong hand gestures. "We used the quills from a basilisk cub's tail." Fen's eyes widened, clearly aware of the creatures and their ferocity. The man nodded with a theatrical grin. "Then we poked it into our skin like a needle, and for the black dye we used the pitch from two different trees in the area, mixed with yellow ochre. One pinprick at a time, the dye is forever part of our skin."

"It doesn't wash off?"

The man shook his head in wide, expressive sweeps. "And it never will."

"Wow," the lad said with a gaping mouth. "Can I have that too?"

Both the man and woman chuckled, glancing at each other with genuine satisfaction. "I don't think it's wise," the woman said.

"Your parents wouldn't even appreciate us putting the idea in your head," her husband added.

Fen didn't even turn solemn at the mention of his departed parents. "They're dead," he said plainly, the couple's eyes lowering in sympathy. "But I guess Humbrey won't like it either. He's the one that takes care of me."

The man nodded. "I suspect you're right. Any good caregiver would advise against getting tattoos so young." He watched as the boy lowered his head, his face gloomy as he stared at his feet. "What's your name, young man?"

"Fenrick," he said woefully, still gazing downward. "Most call me Fen. Sometimes 'Sprout', but I don't like that; it means I'm little."

The man's grin returned. "Well Fen, 'Sprout' sounds rather endearing to me," he said. "It depends on who says it, and how they make you feel." Fen didn't look up, his lips pursing and feet fidgeting from the attention. "Would you feel small if _I_ called you 'Sprout'?"

Fenrick raised his eyes, unable to ignore the question. "I think so," he moaned. "Do you think I'm small?"

"Not at all, child," the man answered respectably. "In fact I believe your heart and mind are both quite grand. I'm impressed that a body as small as yours can contain such great things." Fen let a smile cross his lips, head tilting down again in embarrassment. "You should be proud to wear such a name as 'Sprout', I think."

Fen still gazed at his feet, his cheeks rosy and hot with splendor.

"Would you like to know our names?" the man asked. Fen nodded. "My name is Lucien Heshtacia. This is my life partner, Gloria Hestacia. And we're of the Doushtaki Clan of the New Rhowari. It's a pleasure to meet you, Fenrick."

Fen didn't respond for a few seconds, then found courage to face them and make eye contact. He bowed to pay respect, unsure of what gesture is customary between the two cultures, or if there was even a difference in culture at all.

"I guess you can call me 'Sprout'," he offered timidly.

"Then I shall the next we meet," Lucien said gayly. "Now I think you should be off to your own people; they won't like you wandering so." He gently shooed Fen away with a gesture. "Run along now."

The boy complied, returning to his caravan while Humbrey was looking for him. He lied, saying that he was hiding beneath a cart while spying the settled Rhowari all along. As little and naive as he was, Fen at least understood that his youthful, undiscriminating perceptions weren't appreciated among the stubborn lot of his traditional people.

In the time that Fen spent wandering, one of the carts was filled with only the goods they would trade away for the food, tools and textiles they'd need until they reached Pearl Peak, or more likely its southern suburb, Hatherton. The cart was wheeled to a wooden lean-to which housed a small stockpile of goods to be given in return. After the exchange the representatives of each tribe offered the obligatory parting niceties and the roving caravan set off through the eastern gate.

The road hooked northward and exited the forest, bearing a narrow beach until it dissolved into eroded crags. A steady wind came from the east, the sea bringing its autumn chill upon the now-bundled Rhowari. Against the tide sailed a lonely brigantine, pushing northeast where it would pass by Stillman's Cove, which formed a stagnant pool of seawater where the shoreline bent sharply toward the northeast. The shore would eventually tip eastward again, and soon to the southeast, forming a blunt point of land where Pearl Peak loomed.

Few settlements of worth were beyond that city, yet Fen was still unknowing of the ways of the world and where men's aims were rested. He could not even recognize the symbols on the vessel's sails through his caregiver's spyglass, but they certainly made him uncomfortable and implied sinister deeds to follow. Humbrey and the rest of the adults knew more of what to expect, all of them grateful that they were unlikely to make contact with its passengers.

As the ship sailed farther from the shore, Fen's thoughts drifted to less ominous things.

"Do you think I can get a tattoo?" he asked Humbrey.

The man's face grimaced, though it failed to show through the thickness of his brown facial hair. He was somehow less concerned at how his ward obtained the notion than he was at how painful the process would be for the child.

"Nay, lad," he replied in a voice gravely from settling mucous. He cleared his throat. "I doubt you'd like getting one. Besides, they only grow uglier as you age."

"Oh," Fen whimpered.

"Don't worry, Sprout," Humbrey said, trying to cheer him up. "We'll find you something more practical. And just as creative!"

Fenrick wanted to look up and feign encouragement. But he failed - his expression was blank, and he sulked quietly for a ways. He'd heard that name, "Sprout." It made him feel little all over again.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Efrim stood off the docks of Pearl Peak's harbor, awaiting the Inquisators'ship with terrible anticipation. He could spot it barely on the horizon. "Another couple of hours," he grumbled to himself, walking off the docks and into the waterfront marketplace.

Pearl Peak was aptly named for its trade in raw pearls and jewelry made from them. The centerpiece of the city was locate a mile to its east, where the land elevated and a narrow cliff speared out over the sea. It was roughly 100 feet above the water and its point jutted out far enough to clear any rocks and shallows, making the drop a survivable dive. Pearl diving became a legitimate profession in the community, where the long dive allowed one to slice the water down to its seabed with haste to search for clams and other potential treasures before they would lose their breath too soon.

Aside from the pearl trade, the community made a decent living from Deepwell Mine near Hatherton, their local source of amethyst and opal. Aside from luxuries, there isn't much that Pearl Peak offers. Hatherton will reap a surplus of crops every year, but the haul available for trade is typically below average for farming communities and Hatherton usually handles its own trade.

With such a concentration of wealth centered on small, luxurious trinkets, the professions of Pearl Peak must also include a fair share of thievery - when a substantial amount of value can be taken and hidden again so easily, it becomes only a natural evolution of supply and demand; the supply being goods worthy of theft, the demand being theft itself.

Because of this a fair number of practiced thieves call the city home, most of which born and raised in the same community. Some of them eked out an honest living in Hatherton when able and resorted to burglary and pick pocketing as either necessity or sport. Others regard themselves as professionals, sometimes boastfully selling their skills as mercenaries willing to travel to obtain valuable objects.

The idea of a centralized community of these professionals is sometimes hinted, often given a farcical title such as "The Thieves Guild, " "Shadow Clan," "Den of Swift," and more. In general this notion is given little credibility, yet there are the occasional series of related crimes that implicate a great collaboration of sticky fingers. Otherwise, when things are quiet and relatively predictable, many assume the "criminal underground" is no more than a scattered collective who merely meet to commiserate and move along to their next individual heists.

Efrim had no such thoughts of criminals as he meandered between merchant stalls, pretending to browse wares and walk a patrol route. His mind was clearly fixated on another fashion of criminality that approached the city's harbor. And while he longed for the state of things to revert back to simple duty, he was not ready nor entertained by the sudden onset of a such a crime in motion.

With a sudden angry bark of a metalware merchant, Efrim came to attention and caught sight of a slender, short-haired man perhaps no older than twenty years. He moved quickly, much to the guard captain's chagrin, yet his maneuvering through the crowds was clumsy and he thought it probable he could catch the young villain in a mistake.

Though weighted by his ring mail, Efrim gave pursuit. Upon crossing the open square of the waterfront district, the criminal paused only briefly to inspect the building directly in front of them. Clearly he found no way to use it to his advantage and circled around to the street beside it, Efrim's path easily corrected and made clear by the waving of his sword for pedestrians to see.

As he gained ground on his target, Efrim took joy in spotting another guard heading off the thief, sword brandished and crossbow slung loosely over a shoulder. The young man then proved to be either cunning or fortunate as he mounted a ladder against one of the houses along that street and padded his way up. Efrim and the new guard came under the ladder, expecting the thief to be trapped as they saw it led only to the overhang of a roof. Yet their hopes were quickly dashed as a secret hatch was thrown open and the thief stole away onto the rooftop.

"Shit," Efrim spat, sheathing his sword and yanking the loaded crossbow from the guard's shoulder. "I'll be needing this."

He slung the crossbow over his own shoulder and rushed up the ladder as well, grateful that the thief was reckless enough to leave it open for his convenience. On the rooftop he spotted his mark, already hopping onto the roof of a neighboring house, his landing marred briefly by uneasy footing on the wooden shingles. In the time it took the villain to kick off several shakes and regain his footing, Efrim had already found his poise against the neighboring roof's edge and launched himself, landing heavily but recovering faster than his target as he barely began to speed away again.

They rounded an upper-story gable on the same building and the roof sloped down, the runner easily hopping to the street below and dashing across to the next building. Efrim came to the roof's low edge and saw that the runner needed to scale the building across; guards had already circled around and would have flanked him. With a higher rooftop, he needed to find his grips on a windowpane and whatever divots in the wall he could find.

Efrim readied the crossbow he borrowed and aimed, his target halfway up the wall. The bolt was loosed and hit the stucco wall of the house, pinging near the thief's left hand and staggering him enough that he fell onto his back. The two guards on the street met with him in seconds before he could stand again.

One of the capturing guards gave Efrim a victorious wave, to which he waved back. "Yeh, I meant to do that," he muttered with a sarcastic laugh.

It became evening soon enough and Efrim's prior duties as an escort wouldn't allow him to deal further with the apprehended thief. He met with the Inquisitors as they docked and led them directly out of Pearl Peak and into the limits of Hatherton. They dared not waste time and Efrim was much delighted to stay in front as their leader; observing them - in particular the heavy-dressed figure in the low cowl - was most unnerving.

He waited outside the manor in which his friend Donnell had been deliberately tucked away for the last two weeks, the party of hooded spooks probably interrogating him to the fullest degree available to them in this setting. Dr. Tobias Kestrem was also among them, Efrim knew, and so he felt some comfort that his friend's daze would be masked by the enthusiasm of his senior scientist.

In time they exited, striding through the front door with purpose. The guard captain was only glad that there was no blood on them; it wouldn't have been the first time they spuriously accused people of being blasphemers to justify a slaughter.

They walked up to him, the shortest and most hardened of face taking the front. Inquisitors were known to be a dismal lot, and so Efrim took some hope upon a closer inspection, all but the one overburdened figure having removed their cowls. There were five in all, the still-cowled one taking center in their formation while the other four surrounded him as corners of a diamond. Evidentially he was either the feared witch hunter or a man of great respect - that is, assuming the chin barely showing from the shadow of his hood correctly indicates a man.

To the side of the formation was the one who gave Efrim some hope. Certainly his face had been chiseled over to seem hard and cruel, yet his eyes seemed to imply a man far less morbid or cynical. Good, this one will be my liaison, Efrim thought to himself. It was apparent that the entire group knew this one's "weakness," and they felt secure that the ghoulish man at their helm was speaking for them all.

"We'll need rest for the night," their leader stated in monotone.

Efrim bowed his head, attempting some manner of respect. "Of course, Inquisitor Haren. There are two inns in town and I'm certain either one will have room enough this time of year."

"No. We sleep outside," Haren insisted. "You will bring us camping equipment to the south of town. Look for our campfire. And have two of your men ready to depart with us in the morn."

Efrim felt scolded and didn't know how to respond. Ultimately he did as he was told, wanting to ask if he was expected to join them along with his men, but he was smart enough to keep silent. There's a certain degree of patience that one needs for their like, and a certain degree that they lack for everyone else. For the time being, the guard captain was happy that he knew his duty for the night and could rest beyond it.

* * *

A low droning filled the stone corridors of the ancient tomb. It buried all of its grim inhabitants in a wall of sound, a terrible bass born from a choral chanting. The men bellowing this singular tone stood with hands clasped below their waist, arms hanging still and pale in flickering torchlight. They were breathless and yet kept exhaling, unwilling or unable to stop for air. If observed for long enough, one could surmise that they didn't require air at all - something unholy drove their voices, and so long as they sang they were outside the laws of mortality.

In the middle of a chamber stood a man, barely beyond 30 years of age, his head shaven bald with a long scar over the crown of his head. With him was a boy who stood in the center of a large sigil designated for their Chthonic entities. The boy's hand was outstretched, palm upward, above the very center of this sigil, while the man stood before him with a dagger in his hand. The man began carving into the boy's palm, flesh cutting effortlessly from such a thin and honed blade. The process was slow and meticulous to account for all of the creases and inclines of the palm. The man needed it to be correct, perfect in curvature and angles compared to the larger sigil beneath it.

Then, in a tongue more ancient than Old Arkovian, the man spoke a synchronized drivel, each syllable given the same length with no rest, giving the impression of one frightenly long word. At the end of his vocalizing the dagger stopped carving, the boy peculiarly resilient to pain the entire time, and the blade was balanced perpendicular to the center of the palm and carved symbol, held in place lightly by the palm of the man's hand. He met the boy's eyes in a determined stare, and for an instant their minds merged into a single consciousness.

"Your duty is done," came a telepathic message.

Their minds severed and the dagger drove itself through the boy's hand. Where one expects the sound of scraping metal and cracking cartilage came instead the sound of a great stone slab down the corridors to the entrance of the tomb. The boy's eyes widened in horror, expecting it to be the arrival of a terrible being from beyond their reality. But as the other cultists took up weapons, he knew they were perhaps in even greater trouble.

Then the true pain began.

* * *

Efrim sat on the headstone of a Walther G. Hesston, aged 53 at death. He vaguely knew the man, a marginally successful metalware merchant who earned enough to keep a modest single story shack in both Hatherton and Malmouth. His market stall in Pearl Peak would be active for at least two weeks of every month, selling an assortment of metal dishware, utensils and occasionally lockpicks, which he had taken as a profitable hobby in the demanding environment of thieves. Of course, the latter stock was mostly hearsay; Efrim himself had questioned the salesmen a number of times, never truly able to prove his guilt in selling burglary paraphernalia. Then when his stock appeared low, he traveled to Malmouth where the metalworkers would fashion his next order of legal items.

The guard captain found it amusing, having this long-suspected man's gravestone sitting so close to the entrance of the tomb. He still felt his instincts were correct and pondered as much while waiting for the Inquisitors to finish their business. Both of his guards accompanied them inside, leaving him alone and bored as he listened to the faint echoes that came from far within. He assumed his men were safe, though he didn't care much for the fates of the hooded visitors.

The echoes began fairly close to the entrance, as he recalled, but in the last 20 minutes they seemed to have grown less tumultuous and were sunken farther into the smooth rock subterrane. Whatever they found was obviously hostile and must have retreated deeper to find a vantage point. There couldn't have been an escape, at least not one that had originally been erected.

"Come on, gentlemen," he murmured to himself. "Don't leave me in suspense out here."

Then his faux command seemed to have been answered, as both of his men exited the mausoleum archway followed by the Inquisitor party. They all wore spatters of blood in exception for the witch hunter, who was finally visible without his low hood and heavy overcoat. He wasn't as muscled as expected, yet his face was jagged and ugly. The beginnings of tattoos were apparent around the base of his neck, presumably continued as full-body inkings given the flamboyant nature of certain occult sects. He held a bloodied sword, a curious sight given how immaculate the wielder's clothing was. What was more odd was its design, that triangular creases were spaced evenly throughout the blade, etched as though pointing ever upward to the tip of the blade.

Inquisitor Haren pulled a handkerchief from a pocket underneath his robes and dabbed the wet blood on his face. "Bring up the bodies," he instructed in the direction of the two guardsmen. Efrim stood from Walther Hesston's gravestone to follow and assist, but Haren held up his hand to stop him. "You may stay with us."

Again, Efrim didn't want to argue with their logic, especially given the lack of casualties and their appearance after so bloody an encounter. It took more than an hour for his men to drag the bodies out of the tunnels. They were sixteen total, two unconscious and maimed but likely to live. One in particular must have been a child, yet so gruesome was its state that Efrim and his men couldn't discern whether it was a boy or girl. Its skin was shriveled and purple like a prune, body almost completely drained of blood through a gaping hole in its hand; it appeared that some sickly process had suctioned everything out that could fit through the opening. Neither the Inquisitors nor the accompanying guards would comment on the scene they confronted down below, let alone the corpse itself, and no one was stupid enough to raise a question.

The Inquisitors were prepared for such a count of bodies. After all of the victims were brought up, the four legal members unraveled three long woolen sheets and laid the bodies lengthwise on them, six corpses on one, four corpses on each of the other two with the living ones trailing at their ends. Ropes were tied around the blankets so that each body would be held securely by their legs and chest, fabric concealing all but a narrow strip of their fronts. Once every one was secure, the sheets were dragged out of the cemetery and into town, a grueling, horrid ordeal for all to witness in the early evening hours when light was dim but still revealing.

The party's first stop was the constable's station where the two survivors would be jailed and have their wounds treated. The rest were hauled to an old abandoned home and rolled through the low basement windows where they would stay somewhat cool and ready for a mortician from Pearl Peak to attend to them, performing basic autopsies before their cremation.

As the Inquisitors rolled up the bloodied dragging sheets, The Flail sat nearby on a stone beside the dirt road, pouring the contents of his water flask onto his sword and wiping it clean with a rag. Once its flat surfaces shined again, he poured what was left in the flask and took a small brush to the triangular ridges.

"Must be hard to keep," a passerby observed.

The look on the witch hunter's face was awful. It was a smile - too wide for the morbid subject at hand - yet with the ugly, foreboding angles of his jaws and cheekbones came the reveal of otherwise unseen scars. It seemed as though he wore a mask at all times to cover them, but in those brief moments of joy where others would be sad or horrified, the mask fell away and bold, pale etchings stretched from eye to jaw, nose to lips, and ear to chin. Most telling of all was the symmetry; these scars were deliberate and may not wholly be the product of mortal hands.

Efrim was watching the scene and felt terror for the commoner's sake, as would anyone if they knew who this man was.

The Flail's smile waned after a few seconds and he looked back down to his weapon. "Easier than usual," he replied, his voice a low, throaty tremolo. He continued with his cleaning.

Haren approached Efrim after the blankets were fully rolled and ropes coiled.

"We will return to camp," he proclaimed, as monotonous as ever. "I expect to meet you here before high noon tomorrow. We shall consult with the undertaker. Discuss our findings."

Efrim nodded once, nearly a small bow, and didn't speak. Haren accepted the affirmation and the five grisly members plodded down the road leading south, back to the southern reaches of town where they held camp in the woods. The witch hunter was kept center in their diamond formation as before.

The guard captain then dismissed his two men and sat on a rock near the one The Flail straddled moments before, gawking at the five visitors as they slowly vanished down the road.

"Damn," he thought aloud to himself. "I just heard the voice of death, didn't I?"


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Charlotte seemed impatient, leaning against the portside railing on the Weeping Wight, watching intently for their land party's conclusion. They were anchored outside Homestead, not nearly as far and cautious as with Malmouth, making their trade of fish and imported drinking water. She expected a modest amount of residual potato stock to be collected in the trade, along with gold and other vegetables that might keep for some time. Beets and carrots tend to be what the farmers could spare.

She was contemplating the coming winter. In the past she stayed on the ship, anchored off Firebug Isle, intent on keeping close to the captain who in turn wouldn't dare leave his ship. This year she wasn't so sure. Charlotte pined for a normal, stable life for a season, working an honest job and drinking beer straight from a tap, eating foods kept by ice and snow rather than salt with heartier vegetables that still came through in the early winter months.

It would be a good life, she thought, one she didn't get to experience before becoming an adult with the crew of misfits around her. The Weeping Wight was not always named so. Before its capture it was called "The Harried Horsewife," a member of the Empire's old merchant fleet. This was during a time of greater discontent with the Empire; it was only after a rash of similar captures and destruction that the government opted out of state-organized trade, instead leaving it to private merchants and offering limited insurance on ships and goods - limited being a strong operative word. When they offered fair comprehensive insurance on private vessels, pirates would prey on them simply to help the Empire lose money on claims. The practice had an adverse effect, though, since the Empire would often arrest the merchants that had been plundered and seize their assets, accusing them of cooperating with the pirates to fraudulently collect claim money.

The Harried Horsewife was among the first ships to be stolen when the insurance was reduced. By the time Jecca had convinced the old captain to submit a claim, the level of payout was dramatically reduced, leaving Jecca's crew with no additional gold and limited loot - the captured ship had been no more than a joyride for a noble family for half of its voyages.

From such a lackluster event, more than half of Jecca's crew deserted, clinging to the ramshackle galleon they came from and stole away, leaving the captain and his brother behind. Fortunately there remained the option for the wealthier captives' ransom, a moderate treasure made overnight as the Ravenwell family was released on the shores of Frostleaf Isle. Only one member of the family wasn't released - the scrawny young woman gazing at the amber fields ashore.

"Still a lost little puppy whenever he's away, eh?" a sharp tenor voice asked from behind her.

Charlotte expected the slight. She'd heard the heavy tromp of Petra's high-heeled boots from across the ship as they came closer in a roundabout path.

"Spare me, Petra," she groaned. "You might have a kind word or two in your vocabulary if anyone had the stomach to care for you."

Petra huffed through his nose. "And what does my brother do, if not care for me?"

Charlotte turned around and rested her back against the railing, a wry smile crossing her lips. "I suppose you're right," she said, mocking in tone. "He must indeed care for you - at the very least as one would pity a touched child." She reveled in the sour look on Petra's face. "In fact, you're none too keen of mind yourself anyway. Only fitting."

The cocky first mate allowed his face to settle until his anger no longer appeared visible. These two had bickered many a time in the last five years, though the dynamic never became more comfortable with time. One might believe they honestly hated one another, but realistically they only struggled like siblings for the affections of the same man. Naturally, tensions still became heated at times.

"I hear you're still quite critical of me," Petra stated in calm confrontation. "That I may even be irresponsible."

Charlotte nodded. "So, Jecca doesn't hide anything from his brother," she mused aloud. "Sounds like a good relationship after all." She expected her rival's expression to change, instead finding it blank and receptive. "Did he tell you that he agrees with me?"

"Not in so many words, no," he replied, shrugging. "I find it hard to accept this much criticism over a delayed exchange from two whole years ago. I did well last year."

"Then you made us wait again for this one," Charlotte shot back.

Petra tensed once more, breaking eye contact. "It wasn't that long," he said defensively.

"Still long enough for the Malmouth Seaguard to get antsy and come after us." Charlotte mimicked his anger. "And you were drunk again - you couldn't row worth shit."

Petra wanted to release his tension, highly aware that he proved himself vulnerable in this emotional state. His fists, clutching in anger, slowly uncurled. Charlotte could still see his emotions in his fingers as they trembled and remained stiff in a clawing posture. He was at least able to mask his voice.

"I suppose you should be grateful," he said, trying to convey humor. "The only thing we lost to the water was a barrel of whiskey." He beamed, thinking himself clever.

Charlotte didn't find him clever. Yet she desired so much not to speak with him anymore that she wouldn't attempt to prove him otherwise. She left the scene, walking toward the bow of the ship and descending the stairs beneath the forecastle and into the crew's quarters. Surrounded by three sets of triple hammocks, the topmost of each hanging seven feet high, she sat on a wooden crate cushioned by a straw and burlap pillow. In one of the canvases slept Jeremy, resting after a full night as the lookout. She hoped her heavy walk and huffing didn't wake the sailor; she was in no mood to speak with anyone at this time.

* * *

Jecca sat with three of his crewmembers in a dining room of the modest Benwith family estate, speaking cordially with their favorite patrons. The farm lied on the western borders of Homestead, nearest to the wild woods and mountains. Aside from the foodstuff and occasional exotic goods they sell to the smugglers, this family provided a handful of the sailors with jobs each winter, always prudent to keep loyal company for property guards and laborers in which to keep pathways shoveled of snow and chipped of ice.

Two of the sailors in the room would stay in the coming winter, both of which acclimated to the workload of the farm; it was far enough removed from town that the road required a great deal of time and effort to clear of snow. One of the sailors was ingenious enough to drive the farming spade up the road with a horse, but was scolded for the damage it caused the road itself, which was left tilled and especially muddy the next spring.

Little of the talk was spent discussing the coming winter, and how there would be no bright ideas on how to work smarter instead of harder this time. This was currently the finalizing of the autumn smuggling run; Henry Benwith was an old yet resourceful man who knew many obscure angles to which the goods can be sold. His son, William, was a charming fellow who could fool anyone into thinking he was a simpleton of a farmboy while he carted small loads of fish and barreled spring water into their fence's market stall. The final merchant, Dorothy Adams, was a shrewd lass barely more pleasant to look at than speak to. Her curt temperament kept people at bay from her personal life, which made her all the less interesting as she funneled illegally-bought goods into the public.

"What do you mean Dorothy won't be working the stall this winter?" asked one of the sailors, who supposedly fancied the abrasive woman. "Is she well?"

"Perfectly healthy," Henry assured. "And also a smidgen more well-off than you remember her."

Jecca tapped his fingers on the wooden dining table. "So she finally got to learn about that rich family member she would've no doubt hated," he added sarcastically. Henry scoffed delightedly at the joke.

"Who's to sell the wares, then?" another sailor asked, concerned for their operation.

"Oh, we'll find someone," Henry said nonchalantly. He took a seat at the end of the table and poured himself some of the new spring water from a glass pitcher. "There's a boy I know - or rather William knows - who would be dandy. Lives down by the prison in Lower Crossing."

The group of smugglers looked incredulously at the old man. "So some little bumpkin from the housing development is our ticket?" the sailor who would most miss Dorothy jeered.

"Irv, that's not necessary," Jecca scolded quietly. He looked back to the old man. "Is there no way we can convince Dorothy to stay in business?" Henry looked at him with doubt in his eyes, ultimately shaking his head. "Surely she wouldn't object to building her wealth further?"

"No, but her objection to people in general is enough to dissuade her," Henry concluded with a low chortle.

Irving dropped an arm heavily on the table, sounding his frustration without being so crass as to bang his fists. Jecca winced at the behavior.

"Well then, what's to know about this boy?" Jecca asked.

William then entered the room, likely having heard this part of the discussion. "He's no bumpkin," the man of 22 years asserted. "His parents were a fairly prestigious lot until they were arrested for embezzlement. The Merchant Bank in Malmouth didn't take kindly to 'em. So the boy had been raised by the prison guards and officers in Lower Crossing."

"Interesting," said Philip, the senior lookout among the sailors. He was mostly perceptive of character, thus tended to keep lookout with land parties rather than on the ship.

"Quite - he could develop so many ways," Jecca observed. "Maybe he's a skilled thief and coordinator taking from his parents. Or maybe he's a lawful and gods-fearing citizen after living among the prison staff." Jecca cocked his head and grinned sardonically. "Or maybe it's all irrelevant and he's just that convenient 'nobody' that we need to remain quiet."

"You might be surprised how all of that can be rolled into one," William said merrily. "I never know if I can honestly call him a friend, though. He's a wonderful fibber."

Jecca rapped a knuckle on the table as though calling attention with a gavel. "Very well, is someone to go fetch him?"

"No need," Henry stated. "The boy visits Homestead often. You might find him in Sandy's Tavern, peddling goodness-knows-what."

The captain and his crew exchanged a number of glances. "Then find him, we shall," Jecca said conclusively, gesturing as though tipping an invisible hat in courtesy.

They trotted down the road in the waning sunlight, nearly an hour's walk before entering town. Upon coming near the appointed tavern, Irving broke away to conduct some private business. The others let him go, supposing that they wouldn't see him for the rest of the night.

Upon entering the tavern they did indeed see the young man, plain as day as he hustled a small huddle of barflies that were still not inebriated. Next to his chair was a crate filled with small glass bottles donning narrowly spouted caps, each containing a clear tan fluid. The three smugglers watched as he wiled his way into the purses of those around him.

"No sir, I promise this fine product does not burn," he confidently answered a question.

"Then how does it work?" a gruff voice demanded.

"How else would you like to lose all of that undesirable back hair?" the boy tactfully chided. The inquirer's lips disappeared into his moustache with an unamused pursing while everyone else remained intently silent. "Why, this subtle liquid gently seeps into your pores and lubricates the very _roots_ of your hair until they simply slip free and fall away from you!"

He then stood from his chair and rolled up one of his sleeves to produce an arm without so much as a fine stubble. He flung his other arm out, hand outstretched as if to announce, "Presto!" Jecca and his companions were surprised themselves, though less than the untraveled townfolk.

"Suppose he's even old enough to have hair other than atop his head?" Jecca chuckled.

Wendell, the fourth and least specialized of the landing party, shrugged. "How do you explain the stubble on his face?"

Philip wasn't necessarily convinced with that evidence. "Let's just wait and see," he said.

The boy rolled his sleeve back down and sat, pulling a bottle from his crate. "In this glass container holds the key to smooth, desirable skin, ladies and gents!" he proclaimed. "You need only apply this silky oil twice a day for three days - and it doesn't take much."

He felt the air hang with doubt only briefly as he gave them the instructions which sounded less simple and miraculous as he indicates. To clear it away, he lifted the arm he once displayed to let its sleeve slip back naturally. He tipped the spouted bottle over his visible skin, allowing only three drops to land before he set the bottle down and massaged the oil into a thin sheen.

"You see?" he announced, not losing his composure. "Only a few drops will cover any area you wish to be rid of unsightly bristles, and it only takes three days!"

"Yeah, how much then?" a less than ladylike bar wench pressed. "I won't be put through the trouble of wetting my husband's privates in his sleep every night if it's to cost a fortune!"

The crowd laughed, the young peddler grinning himself. "Ma'am," he began, pausing for effect, "for your courage and your trouble, I'll charge no more than a single fingerweight of gold for a bottle." He swerved his head about to catch everyone's eyes once more. "For the rest of you honest folk, three fingerweights a bottle and not bit more!"

The following moments contained private quips and conversations as the tavern's patrons willfully parted with the asking price for a bottle apiece. The crate soon found itself empty and the boy set a lid on top of it and bid everyone a good night.

Jecca stepped up to the lad with his two companions in tow, taking a seat across from him at the circular table. The peddler displayed a pair of empty palms and beamed.

"My apologies, good sirs," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "I am sold out. Perhaps in my next passing." Philip stood over the boy. Their gazes met briefly, then as the boy looked back to Jecca, Philip pressed his thumb against the boy's cheek. "Excuse me?" he whispered sharply.

Philip examined his thumb. "It's sand," he told his captain, taking care not to be heard by the patrons around them. "And a very particular kind. It's all dark and doesn't glimmer in the light." He looked the boy in the eyes again. "What did you use for adhesive?"

The boy sighed in resignation. "Mudfly's juice," he said plainly. "Crushing the pests is a civic duty down by the delta."

Jecca beamed with intrigue. "And the liquid you were selling?"

The boy was more hesitant with the answer, yet couldn't avoid the stares of the three men around him. "More mudfly guts," he said. "Melted in a pot with whatever tree sap I could get. Also scooped up some slith spittle from the mire."

Jecca and his men grimaced. "Good gods," Jecca exclaimed, "how on Cairn does one concoct such a thing and market it?" The boy shrugged. "Does it perform as you say?"

"Sure enough," the peddler said confidently. Yet with the intent stares set upon him he felt the need to clarify. "It tends to clog the pores though," he added while subconsciously scratching the arm he displayed earlier. "I expect everyone to wake with pimples on their nether regions before the three days are up."

The boy looked nervously at the sailors, evidentially not proud of his answer. "What's your name, boy?" Jecca asked stoically.

"Sanford," he said, giving his surname first. "Call me 'Toddles', though."

Jecca's eyes met with Philips', and with a nod of his lookout and advisor's approval, he reached out and offered to shake the boy's hand.

* * *

"All aright on the deck?"

Charlotte was nearly asleep, uncomfortably hunched over on the crate she sat on two hours before. She had apparently exhausted herself emotionally by fuming over the captain's brother. She perked and looked at Jeremy, who seemed barely more awake than her.

"No," he answered for her. "I can tell."

Charlotte glared at him. "Are the whimsical emotions of women truly that telling?" she asked sarcastically.

Jeremy shook his head. "Petra's an asshole," he stated pointedly. "And never well-contained when the captain's not about."

Charlotte relaxed and chuckled. The stress she allows herself to conjure has made her too defensive, she realized. She stood from the crate, her spine and knees cracking and creaking grudgingly as she stretched and shambled over to Jeremy who lied in the middle hammock. She slipped into the hammock below him and released a labored sigh.

"I can't keep fighting over that man," she said, staring at Jeremy's back above her. "The captain's a good man but a damn fool to keep his fool brother as an officer." She nearly loosed a tear then, fortunately without a single sob for Jeremy to hear. "How can I contend with his blood? Why _should_ I?"

"Your world isn't exactly sunshine and rose petals, dearie," Jeremy said. "You've been bedded by more men than you were willing to, and when it so happens that one of them seemed the slightest bit charming, his kin and closest friends don't like it.

"Not that I'm any manner of friend to the captain," Jeremy concluded modestly.

"Then you don't like me?"

Jeremy waited, at first unwilling to give credit to the woman's entrapment. "I wouldn't say 'dislike'," he offered in a twist of words. "But it's easy to be suspicious when the captain could be manipulated by a lover."

Charlotte huffed. "It's a wonder, then," she said cynically.

"What is?"

"That I haven't been throttled in my sleep and dumped overboard!"

Jeremy's eyes widened, unsure of how to respond and glad that she couldn't see his face.

"Don't worry, Jeremy," she assured after the uncomfortable silence. "I'll be spending the winter ashore this year." She paused, mortified as tiniest of audible sobs escaped her throat. "And if you're all lucky I won't see fit to come aboard in the spring."

Jeremy's widened eyes drooped guiltily then. He was still unable to talk. Yet if he had the words appropriate for the situation, he might at least tell her that he wouldn't feel lucky at all in her hypothetical scenario.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Autumn leaves were falling over the Rhowari caravan as they traveled the road just inside the forest borders. Beyond it was the sea and its southwest-bound wind whipping about. Many of the adults enjoyed the fall folliage, calling it "beautiful" and "homely," the children dancing in whatever pile of crisp leaves they could find.

Fenrick couldn't be bothered to take note. Humbrey noticed a calm indifference about the boy. Had he no sense of joy left? This stoicism didn't even begin when the boy lost his parents, witnessing their capture and certain doom at the hands of slith raiders. They were the only two losses in that encounter. The boy probably took it hardest because of that; why only his mother and father, after all? The slith clans were large enough, surely they could have held onto another catch. Or maybe he blamed himself, yet the possibility was unlikely considering his younger age at the time.

No, the boy's loss wasn't the cause of this, at least not directly. Perhaps the constant traveling didn't bode well for him. It may be that their constant move resembles the evacuation of every fertile land they might make home in. Or it may be that he feels like he's always running away from his loss. Does he feel guilty, cowardly or vindictive? Humbrey couldn't tell. If any of it held true, he must have lived with it for years now, engraining it deeply into his personality.

The poor lad, Humbrey thought, certainly not for the first time. In the past three days since leaving Rhowan's Rest he began considering the possible solutions in earnest, if any such would exist. They could return to the 'mire, this time not choosing the safest route by ferrying around to Southern Pass. It may give him some peace to face the scene where it took place. Then again, it may traumatize him more. What could be done anyhow? The Rhowari were pacifists; they wouldn't dare take arms and assault the suspected tribe of slith. It wouldn't even be safe to approach them and look for any keepsakes of his parents that were left behind in their refuse piles.

"Won't you join your friends?" Humbrey asked, pointing at the other three children of the caravan who were rustling through leaves piling over high grass. "They seem to be having fun."

"I don't like the sound they make," Fenrick said plainly. He kept walking, not interested in the least as the other children ran ahead of the group and tromped about in a new patch of leaves.

Humbrey wanted to suggest other juvenile activities, yet he knew from experience that Fen was not receptive when one became insistent. He took heart that the fork in the road leading to Hatherton and Pearl Peak was just ahead. Typically they cut directly to Hatherton and trade any trinkets of worth they still had for food and a day's shelter. This trip would see them enter Pearl Peak first, and without fear of rejection - their stock of cacao beans from the far south, along with refined cocoa powder, was a prized delicacy along the northern sea, especially this far out from Devil's Crossing and the connecting road which leads south.

As they passed the deviating road which led southeast into Hatherton, Humbrey saw an excited twinkle in Fenrick's eye. He knew the boy wanted to ask if they were truly headed for the city, home of noisome dockworkers, pushy merchants and the great cliff which pierces the wind toward the sea. It was a great deal of stimulation - just what a budding young man needed to cheer up.

Fen had never been to Pearl Peak before, at least not since he was a truly small child and his parents were still alive. He didn't remember the congestion of the residential district on the west of town. Its buildings were all at least two stories high with only the tightest alleyways between them for domestic and stray animals to prowl and cry for food at night. Little in the way of beautification existed until they neared the center of the district where two blocks of newly-renovated condominiums gave a breath of fresh air, with smaller buildings, encircling fences and lovely floral bushes crowding the walls.

Nearing the exit into the merchant district and adjoining harbor, the buildings naturally fanned out and gave room for the expected abundance of pedestrians. Down a particular avenue the Rhowari noticed some peculiar activities, including the nailing of a well-concealed hatch on a rooftop and the distance that citizens kept with a pair of guards as they questioned an individual.

Humbrey put an arm around Fenrick's shoulders, intent on keeping him close at hand. In Fen's mind he was only restricted his free roam in Rhowan's Rest, where he was guarded from the opposing ideology. But here the children weren't allowed outside their guardians' sight for the lack of security; some recent news of a theft in open daylight had already reached their ears, and gods knew where there were thieves, there may also be kidnappers and murderers.

Pearl Peak had an unusual trading mechanism. Instead of selling goods to the appropriate or more desired merchant, sellers must unload their goods at a warehouse. The clerks there would purchase the goods for the anticipated bulk price, categorize, store away and eventually sell them to the specific merchants for a tiny percentage of tax. This system was implemented as a failsafe. It helped to import goods by guaranteeing a full purchase of stock, whereas if only a single merchant was consulted he or she may only afford to take on a portion and the remainder may not even be found by other, more obscure traders in the district or beyond. It also helped divy the goods to multiple merchants as appropriate, since an overabundance may either be a capital waste or unfair advantage depending on circumstances.

This socialized import system was developed and maintained by the city - the Empire itself had little desire to take on the bureaucratic demand. Beyond this stage of business the city regulated next to nothing. Fortunately the need to keep goods affordable enough for citizens was enough to maintain fair sale prices. Competition would also remain healthy, much in thanks to the import system's divvying of goods.

The concept however came with a bitter taste for the Rhowari party, as their ideology dislikes monetary wealth and strives to limit transactions to direct bartering. Since the warehouse did not sell goods it could only offer money, creating a sense of urgency for the caravan to spend everything that they made.

Fenrick, however, was fascinated by the coins their knowledgeable tradesman carried.

"Fingerweights are the standard measurement in value," Lein explained, holding up a thin, golden oval chip. "Beneath that are bronze 'knuckles'," he then held up a small brown coin about the size of a thumbnail, "three of which make a finger. And the highest denomination is the silver 'hand'," he then held out another oval chip, this one slightly shorter yet much wider than the golden finger. "This one is worth five fingerweights."

"Why are they called parts of a hand?" Fenrick asked.

"It's ceremonial," Lein said. "Before there was money, people only bartered, as we ourselves do now. After each trade, the merchants would seal the deal with a handshake. If they didn't…" Lein gave the boy a grave look, "then the offer was seen to be unjust. So, when a system of value was created, the coins were named after the parts of a hand so that each transaction would be signified by the joining of hands."

Fenrick was most interested. "May I have one?"

"No lad," Lein said somberly. "These are not for us to keep. Coins are good for nothing more than to quantify wealth, and we as Rhowari don't condone the concepts of wealth and ownership." He saw the disheartening look on Fen's face and was struck guilty that he must keep the child from a small piece of joy. He conceded and secretly offered him a single golden finger.

A glow on his face, Fen accepted the coin and buried it deep in a pocket. He also seemed curious as he looked back up to Lein."

"Why isn't gold worth more than the silver?" he asked.

"Because gold isn't as rare as silver like it used to be," Lein answered. "The silver hand is a fairly new type of coin, and it's valued based on how expensive it is to get the metal."

Fen still seemed puzzled. "Oh. I thought gold was better because it's prettier."

Lein grinned and shook his head. "No sir," he said surely, "it's all about what they call 'supply and demand'. But that's a lesson for another day."

The caravan spent what they could on necessary supplies from the city which left them with a modest amount of currency left. They knew it could still be spent in Hatherton, so they elected to keep the coin rather than spend it on the myriad of frivolous things surrounding them in the city's market. The notion of keeping the coin for any length of time made many members uncomfortable, thus they made their departure to Hatherton swiftly. They spent the remainder on various perishable supplies and set up camp near a farmhouse along the southwest border of town.

Fenrick had joined Lein and two other adults as they visited the farmers, Jorah and Catherine Walker. They sat and socialized on the farmhouse's porch, chewing on stalks of grain and sipping a strong tea brewed from berry bush leaves.

"I hafta say," Jorah began, taking a sip of his tea, "we enjoy havin' yer company more'n some other rovers." His expression turned sour, not from the bitterness of his drink. "Some'a you's like'ta be all preachy, sayin' we ought to 'live off'a th' nat'ral fruits o' th' land', pickin' berries and suckin' th' juice from worms an' beetles." He set down his cup of tea and picked up a corked carafe, opening it and quaffing a liquid of presumably alcoholic content. "Aye, well, what'n gotdamn do they think I'mma doin' now? All this grain be'in the nat'ral bounty o' th' land, too! Just 'cause I sow it meself, I reckon."

Lein and the adults hid their expressions as well as they could, a glint of humor obvious since they had heard this old man's rant more than once already. Fenrick listened intently, not remembering the stories as well as his elders. Mostly he was glad that his clan didn't live as this farmer described of others.

Off some distance from the Rhowari clan's camp was the site of the Inquisitors. The Flail already slept while the other four huddled around their campfire. Average citizens wouldn't expect to see them like this, as vulnerable humans who shivered from the cutting sea breeze of autumn.

"We should request a calf," Inquisitor Shone, a mean-spirited peer of Haren's, suggested. "The people respect us, they should offer what we need."

Haren shook his head. "No, brother," he calmly hummed. "It would not be proper to demand veal from a small community. We have our own supplies."

"We have nuts and flatbread - bland, hard flatbread!" Shone scoffed. "They do nothing to mask the cold and warm our bellies."

Again Haren shook his head, a stern look on his face. "Roast the nuts and find berries to smear on the bread," he said plainly. "We'll not demand luxury from our meager hosts." Almost on queue, he picked a dry piece of the flatbread from a wooden bowl and held it low near the fire pit. "You say they respect us, Brother Shone?"

"As well they should!" he said emphatically. "Who else would slay the evil that stalks their ignorant abodes?"

Haren glanced at the arrogant comrade, unimpressed by his perceptions. He took back the lukewarm piece of bread and nibbled on it.

"Well, don't you agree?" Shone prodded.

Haren stared at Shone, forcefully drawing silence between them. He dropped the remainder of his bread and clapped the crumbs from his hands.

"Ever hear of a man named Keagan Redquill?" he suddenly asked, unsurprised that Shone couldn't recognize the name. "His father was a farmer, mostly raised pigs. Keagan learned how to read and write at a young age. Important folk hired him as a scribe. Lived a decent life, truth be told." He paused, focusing on the fire and letting the break accentuate his following question. "Now, what do you figure he did when mad cultists invaded his family home?"

"Cower and die?" Shone guessed insincerely, knowing his superior only told such tales to make a point.

"He jabbed his favorite writing quill into one of the cultist's eyes," Haren said sharply. "He used a wheat thresher to take the lower legs off another, then the head off of a third. Finally he tackled the last one and crushed his skull with a piece of marble that he used as a paperweight. It was quite the grisly scene."

Shone slumped back as Haren continued, giving several more similar stories of painfully average people who overcame horrors that they as Inquisitors were forced to consider and face regularly. These citizens he spoke of were by no means household names, but to some extent each one was a local hero for a time.

"These people are the ones who earn respect," Haren concluded. "Their acts were not done in duty; they were merely unexpected acts of heroism that the people admire." He met eyes with Shone again, inaudibly demanding that he listen well. "We're not respected, nor are we necessarily disrespected. We're no more than the spokes and levers of a simple, lifeless machine. And we have a job to do."

Shone wouldn't respond, too proud to be embarrassed yet cautious enough not to argue. He waited some moments before saying anything, searching his memory for something unrelated.

"What do you suppose we'll find from an autopsy?" he finally asked, indicating the bodies they'd laid to rest hours before.

Haren cocked his head as though wanting to shrug, yet was too composed a person to allow it. "Hopefully a bunch of human parts," he answered. "I don't delight in the times we've found mutations."

"What of the child?" asked Gerald, the least imposing of the party that Efrim took solace in spotting this day.

"Can't say I expect to see much of him left," Haren said, the only witness of the scene that was certain the child corpse was a boy.

Meanwhile, as the Inquisitors chattered around the fire, a petite young figure nervously rustled from his vantage point and sped his way back to the rover camp. He was Bentley Bright, ever the curious rascal, this time morbidly afraid that the words he heard of a male child was the notion of himself while he watched. He believed himself discovered and raced to the protection of the caravan.

Haren ignored the sound in the bushes while the others looked in its direction. "Just a frightened animal," he assured them.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Efrim grasped the back of a heavy chair and pulled it behind him, its metal legs scraping noisily across the stone tile floor of the basement. He passed three jail cells on his right before coming to the last of them. It was the only one occupied, its bench kept reasonably warm by the new inhabitant, a thief by the name of Cedric Danwith.

He stared through the bars and focused on a solitary brick in the wall outside of his cell. He dared not acknowledge the guard captain who stood before him, raising such a ruckus with the chair on his way. Efrim planted the seat squarely so that he faced the criminal when he sat down.

"Hard times, I hear," the guard captain said snidely. "I don't reckon you'd care telling me your life story, being cooped up alone in there and all."

Cedric never shifted his gaze. The young man's eyes seemed brittle, Efrim noticed, as a tender boy sitting in a schoolhouse with unread books sitting before him, and he'd dare not tell the teacher he never read a chapter of his assignment. But those eyes weren't telling, he concluded. Cedric wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a sob story, let alone a confession of any sort. Not that a confession was truly important; thievery is a clean-cut ordeal, one punishable by indefinite incarceration in the prison of the local law's choosing. This time the law saw fit to dump him beneath Hatherton's courthouse and constable's station.

"You're a fit young man, " Cedric complimented sincerely. "It's a shame you couldn't use those nimble joints for the docks or packing houses." He paused to offer a grin. "You'd make a fine sailor, too. I can just imagine you dangling from the masts, like a leaf on the wind. Hell, you'd get to see the world that way."

Cedric still didn't speak, but his face twitched only slightly. Certainly the guardsman couldn't have hit a sore spot just then. Yet here was his catch, finally giving his glance to make eye contact.

"You hungry?"

"No," Cedric said, his voice bristly from two days of disuse.

"Thirsty, I bet." Efrim pulled a water canteen from his sash and set it's flat bottom on a row of bars for the prisoner to reach.

Cedric furrowed his eyebrows, unimpressed by the feigned hospitality. He quaffed the contents, not in the least suspicious of its contents. Only water. He needn't be paranoid anyhow, he thought; if they wanted him dead, they would have brainstormed something which seemed more accidental. The possibility certainly wasn't out of reach, though. Just the night before, two other cells were occupied, their inhabitants taken away early this morning. If they came back, the worry of overcrowding might become an issue. Or they could simply cite his intent in town two days before, assuming they realized what he intended.

Efrim took back the empty canteen and nodded. "Didn't taste like piss to you, did it?" he goaded with a smile.

The prisoner believed it was a bluff, yet he couldn't stop his eyes from widening. His adam's apple jumped as he muffled a low gag. The suggestion was a powerful one.

"No? Good, good." Efrim didn't pride himself as a tortuous man of law, but sometimes the temptation was too great. He then gestured back down the hall where the other cells lied vacant. "The other two chaps weren't as sure."

Cedric settled, able to convince his body that no tricks were played. "Where are they now?" he asked uncertainly.

"Oh, they're around, don't you worry," Efrim answered coolly. "Probably still getting stitched up at the clinic. Were in some rough shape, those two." He watched as the prisoner nodded, figuring as much given the gasps and moans he heard during their stay. "Miss your new friends?"

"They didn't know I was back here. It was nice having the company though."

"Why didn't you introduce yourself?" the guard captain asked, a mixed tone of sincere puzzlement and mocking.

Cedric shrugged and leaned back against the wall. "I reckoned they would talk too much," he said coldly. "I didn't want to be alone. I also didn't need to hear moping all night."

"How neighborly of you," Efrim said, less sarcastic than the prisoner expected.

Setting aside the hardened facade, Efrim was less than pleased with the general events occurring around him. Those two survivors should have been seen by the clinician before being stuffed into cells. They were instead left to their pain and festering for hours. He couldn't even be certain they were being treated for their wounds at the clinic. For acting sheriff of Hatherton, Efrim was very much left outside of the relevant affairs as the Inquisition took the reins.

He was still staring at Cedric who would only maintain eye contact for so long before tucking his lips in discomfort and looking away. He wondered if the Inquisitors had any interest in this young man, or if they even realized he existed. The term 'Witch Hunt' took meanings both literal and figurative, the latter of which would put this young man in danger simply by loose association. Being merely in the same room as a cultist would often spell one's doom.

Efrim had nearly stood up before Cedric spoke again, the thief suddenly afraid to be left alone after so short a conversation.

"Where are they?" he asked again, a tinge of concern welling in his throat.

Efrim shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me," he answered curtly. "Supposed to be at the clinic, getting stitched back together."

"But you don't really know?" Cedric's concern was giving way to fear.

Again Efrim shrugged, finally finishing his rise from the chair and setting a hand on its wooden backing. He tilted the chair in the direction he would begin to walk, taking care not to allow the metal feet make their awful noise.

"Are they dead?"

Efrim sighed. "I suppose not," he said, somewhat relieved by the question. "You must have heard what was said and done while they were taken away. You'd know if they were going to die."

"Not necessarily," Cedric said, more relaxed.

"I'll just hope I'm right, then." Efrim sighed and lifted the chair off the floor completely. "I'm the law here, and I'll be damned if I don't get to question those two."

* * *

Haren and one other Inquisitor were awaiting Efrim at the abandoned house by the time he arrived. He was relieved that the leader's accompaniment was Gerald, the least frightening of the group. After indicating that the mortician was already hard at work, Haren led them downstairs through the large outdoor hatch.

The stench was overwhelming. Efrim saw the mortician with a white mask covering his mouth, instruments in hand, picking and slicing at the thoroughly opened corpse below him by the light of a single lantern. Haren was unperturbed, yet Gerald seemed taken aback by the scene, if only for the smell. Efrim was once more pleasantly surprised, believing more strongly than ever that this Inquisitor may have some humanity left to him.

The mortician was no more than a third of the way finished with his work, the bodies he had already dissected laying covered by thick cotton blankets to help mask the smell. Sweat pooled in the crooks of his face. Every few moments he would give his head a quick shake and rub his forehead with an arm. Blood had smeared on his face numerous times already.

Haren and his companion kept their distance from the autopsy, meandering about to look on the bodies still to be inspected. Efrim, less acquainted with the practice of dissection, and biology in general, leaned over as far as he dared to look into the current subject's innards. He didn't know what he was looking at specifically, yet he found the sweetly sour aroma of a freshly-opened corpse more pleasant than those left to rot.

"Everything's as it should be," the undertaker mumbled to the guard captain, barely slowing his work to notice the curious onlooker.

"And with the others so far?" Haren asked.

"Nothing abnormal," the mortician said confidently. "Organs are very human and precisely where they belong. Assuming they weren't affected by the wounds you fellows gave them."

Efrim pulled away from the makeshift operating table and shied from the mortician, suddenly afraid of the man who must have done this manner of work in collaboration with the Inquisition before - to hear a man so comfortable with the act unnerved him. He began to walk about the basement and counted bodies, ensuring there wasn't two extra. He looked at the two Inquisitors and found Gerald watching him as Haren stood in silent rumination.

"What about this one?" the lead Inquisitor asked, nodding in the direction of the shriveled child.

"Saving it for last," the undertaker replied, stopping his current task to await Haren's inevitable complaint. One didn't come, at least not audibly, yet he couldn't stand the thoughtless shaking of his head. "The skin is tougher than jerky. I'd rather not wear down my instruments and have to sharpen them while more bodies waited."

Haren's slight movements ceased. "If you feel it's best," he conceded. The mortician hummed an affirmation and went back to work, slicing down the corpse's legs and peeling back the skin.

Efrim watched, confused. "What would you find there?" he asked. "Aren't you just checking for organs?"

The mortician shook his head, not stopping his work. "Corruption tends to start in vital organs," he started plainly, "but it can show up anywhere. I've seen warped men's muscles that have turned brown and fused to their bone and cartilage. Almost like they were cooked on the inside."

Efrim grimaced. "What would cause such a thing?"

"Transformation," the mortician said pointedly.

"Into what?"

Gerald interjected, not wanting his leader to enter the conversation. "Into whatever it is that humans become after feeling the warp for so long." He sidestepped toward the guard captain, careful not to trip on the splayed limbs of undissected corpses. "See, people talk about monsters from Ch'thon, right?"

"I suppose," Efrim said with a shrug. "Those weren't people once, were they?"

Gerald shook his head. "No, humans can't transform so completely," he answered. "They use a manner of 'rips' or 'rifts' to draw the creatures out from another place."

"So they use some kind of blood magic, then?"

"Not quite," Gerald said, again shaking his head. "The blood is just a coaxing device. Ch'thon is only motivated by lifeforce. Blood and vital organs - the heart especially - are offerings that the creatures will leave their realm to seek and ingest."

"So why don't they drop in on us now?" Efrim asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. He had already talked with this less imposing Inquisitor enough that he forgot to be afraid of them. "There's plenty of the stuff to go around."

"Rites," Haren bellowed. Gerald opened his mouth to speak again, trying to take the conversation back for himself, but his master reined him in. "Rites," he said again, snatching Efrim's gaze from across the basement. "The fiends can't smell our blood from across dimensions. Not alone."

"So, certain phrases need to be said?" Efrim guessed amidst an uncomfortable pause, less bold in his stance.

Haren gave a single, definite shake of his head. "Certain _sounds_," he corrected. "They don't care for our languages. They only listen to timbres and syllables, and their timing. The cult's books are filled with the sounds that have worked in the past. It forms a language altogether, and not a word of it translates to anything."

Efrim struggled to keep eye contact with the Inquisitor, not wanting to seem weak. The explanation was horrifying, though, as he stood beside the mock operation table while the mortician never stopped picking through the same corpse. The body was totally brutalized by now, leaving only the sickly cracking sound of its skull being busted open by a rigid and curved operating saw. The mortician pulled away flecks of broken bone and opened the skull, finding its contents to be satisfactory.

"They prefer certain voices as well," Haren continued, apparently taking delight in Efrim's reaction to the scene. "We destroyed an entire choir yesterday. Hopefully it will be difficult for them to summon anything of substance for some time."

Efrim's jaw was gaping. Something had started ringing in his ears, a terrible echo from another time. It was a low, grainy hum, he thought, perhaps from the day before. He didn't remember ever truly hearing it, though. It seemed as though the mere suggestion gave breath to the bodies that laid around him, to which they used to haunt his mind - a mind so unaccustomed to the chaotic beings that live and skulk about this world every day.

The deep hum grew louder in his head. It must have been a work of his subconscious, for in a moment of paranoia he imagined Haren's voice among the choir and stood gawking. The ringing, constant monotones joined together.

"Certain voices," Efrim mused aloud, his voice adrift in the calm cold of the mostly dark and soundless basement.

"Yes," Gerald said, hoping to draw the attention away from Haren.

But Efrim ignored the more benign Inquisitor and kept his gaze locked on the imposing figure he most feared in this world. He said one more thing, a low, wistful phrase that should not have been heard. And if his wits had still been about him, he'd have wished dearly that they weren't.

"A voice, like yours?"

Haren's eyes widened, ever so slightly.

* * *

Suddenly Efrim found himself outside, forcefully pulled by Gerald who wore an explicitly urgent face. They looked behind them together, ensuring that no one followed them up the stairs. Efrim was safe, yet wasn't certain what happened before he arrived outdoors. Had Haren cast a spell of sorts on him, with only a look?

He thought it impossible, yet was still too entranced by his own frightened imagination to ignore the possibility. Townspeople watched, concerned with what must be transpiring when a man of the red cloak gripped so heavily onto his arm. The guard captain's head was an echoing cavern, the voices of ghosts seemed to moan and call as he watched the curious faces pass by.

"Go to your home," Gerald insisted, probably not for the first time. "Lie in your bed, pat a drum, shoot at targets - do whatever you must to get a grip on yourself."

Efrim shuddered, barely able to hear the words through the awful din in the wind tunnel of his mind. He understood him, though was still too baffled to react.

"Go home," Gerald said again. "Please rest and stay there till tomorrow. You've had a panic attack."

"Panic?" Efrim echoed in a whisper.

The word was akin to a puzzle piece, one that he tried to place with the rest of what might be considered coherent thoughts. Yes, he panicked, he knew it and believed it now. The new connection to reality was bringing him back from the blurry subconscious.

Gerald said no more, stopping to look the guard captain in the eyes. He was somewhat comforted by the change he saw and released his grasp. They both stood independently on the dirt road, a few houses away from the abandoned basement they emerged from.

"What happened?" Efrim asked, sounding slightly more aware.

"Nothing happened to you," Gerald said, adding emphasis to the last word. "I'm not too excited about seeing Inquisitor Haren, though. You've done a right awful thing, accusing him of blasphemy."

Efrim didn't think he implied any such thing. Yet his short-term memory was wracked and he could hardly piece together what was said between everyone in that basement. What did I say? he wondered. The subject of singing and voices came to mind, and only then as he thought of what specifically was said did he realize his heart was thundering the entire time, only barely coming down from a dangerous rush.

Gerald formally bid him farewell and left for the abandoned house, avoiding any further questions or discussion. Efrim slowly accepted his position and started for home. He settled into an armchair, never happier to be alone in his own abode. The throbbing of his heart continued a while longer; he could feel the arteries in his wrists pulsing against the firmly cushioned arms of the seat.

It was evening before his body was at ease. The episode was so taxing on his mind, however, that he felt exhausted. Efrim should have gone to bed early. Instead he left his house and walked stiffly to the constable's courthouse.

He quietly carried the wood and metal chair down the hallway and placed it before Cedric's cell, not concerned with whether the two surviving cultists had been brought back. Cedric was almost asleep, he realized, having forgotten that inmates tend to lose track of time in the dark cellar. The closing of the door behind the guard captain must have stirred the prisoner, for even his droopy eyes seemed alert.

"Something you needed, officer?" the tired prisoner moaned.

"No," Efrim replied, his voice quiet and ragged. "Just thought you could use a friend."

Cedric woke more readily at the answer, confused. Before he could say more he noticed a vulnerability in the lawman. Something had rattled him earlier, and while Cedric would enjoy feeling superior for at least a moment, he chose not to comment and waited for his company to speak more.

But Efrim had nothing more to say. Nearly an hour passed before he nodded off to sleep, slouched over in the crude, uncomfortable chair. Cedric attempted to frisk the sleeping guard captain, dismayed that he couldn't reach, nor could he visually make out where a keyring would be secured him.

Cedric leaned back against the wall, pitying the man before him.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A lone hawk launched from a branch overhead, bits of bark and acorns falling on top of the hunting party. Jefferson combed out his hair with his fingers, cursing for the third time that he didn't consider wearing a hat.

They were seven strong altogether, though the constable that Deacon managed to drag along wasn't good for much more than hauling supplies. Deacon had easily been in better spirits than on this day, frustrated that Burrwitch's mayor wouldn't endorse the hunt and kept his own constables on simple guard duty where they seemed to be needed the least. An arbitrary flexing of power, Deacon thought; it was an imprudent decision when a band of marauders lurked so close to their town limits.

Everyone else that was asked to join came on their own volition. Bondrey MacRook - often called "Crook" for short - lumbered along, six foot tall with a large rucksack of camping supplies and an interlocking chain of four bear traps jangling from his studded belt. Alongside the burly blacksmith was Harris Gaskith, harbormaster Jensen's brother. Bondrey intended to keep the young man close, as his friendly business relationship with Jensen would surely suffer if a wrongdoing befell his brother.

Cullen Duprie, an aging retiree of a lawman, kept pace with the rest of the group yet walking independently. Deacon still respected the man, if truth be told, but outwardly he treated his distastefully gruff mentor as one spoke of an unsightly mole. The old man was a part of him, nearly as great a part as their minor community as a whole, and yet he wanted to cause him displeasure at every opportunity. Cullen would return the demeanor if he'd care enough of the younger lawman's thoughts. As it seemed, retirement only made him more set in his ways, and little could wrench his conscience to the side of 'popular' empathy anymore.

Matilda strode in front of the group, eagerly putting her skills as a tracker to use. She was easily the least fond of the party's mission, in possible exception to Henry, the beleaguered young constable who could barely swing his sword beneath the weight of camping equipment and provisions. However she took to her position dutifully, her direction changing with certainty as though she was not far from a solid clue of their targets' whereabouts.

They were no more than a two hours' hike from the eastern edge of Burrwitch. They were already upon the hills which buffered the civilized shores of Boulder Bay from the mountains to the west, figuring that the foothills of this range would be an inviting hideout for a group of bandits. Caverns were scarce within this range, thus they felt it was only logical to skirt alongside the mountains looking for obvious signs of camp and continue southbound toward the mire before Lower Crossing. The targets were unlikely to be close to the sparse hamlet, as it made home to many of the officers of Devil's Crossing.

Near to evening they approached the territory known as Duskmire, an area heavily laden with fog and the more unsettling inhabitants of the region. The slith made their nests here, and the party would occasionally spot a wandering groble. The squat greenskins were surely aware of the human presence, wherever they held camp in the area, yet they were careful enough to prey only on travelers less armed or trudging with wagon and little in the way of protection. Their numbers might overwhelm even this group of fighters, though grobles remain a race who err on the side of caution nearly to the point of cowardice.

Along the territory's northeastern limits, an area aptly known as the Foggy Banks, Deacon's party strode along the western side of Sucker Brook, a narrow channel that wound about in various degrees of north from the delta near Devil's Crossing. Some deeper segments of the brook would appear almost stagnant, though if one were to wade across they would find themselves shoulder-deep before feeling the forceful tug of its undercurrent. It was along this channel's banks, where tiny streams and ponds budded from it, that locals found riddled with leeches and the eggs of the ubiquitous mosquitoes, giving the brook its name.

The party contemplated their options. Harris and Jefferson, the two youngest members of the party - excluding Henry, who kept to himself - thought they should cross over to the east side of the brook, closer to the road which the marauders might lie in ambush. Deacon and Matilda dismissed the idea, citing that the territory largely belonged to the groble tribes and slith clans. Though the criminals would be wont to raid an unsuspecting trade cart, lying in wait far enough from the road would prove risky with the local fauna about them to take notice.

Having kept a close eye on the western slopes, they resolved to camp that night nearly due west of Lower Crossing. They set up four tents, each large enough to shelter two or more members. Then they threw over the tents large blankets of netting, finely meshed so that even the smaller of biting insects might not get at them. As the sun made its last peek over the horizon, the party sat around a newly-built fire pit with a small blaze from tree branches they found about the site. Matilda tossed in some seed pods from the native trees to release a smoke that would deter a portion of the insects away from them.

Deacon pulled a large mound from his personal backpack, an assortment of nuts and berries that had soaked in honey just days before, wrapped together with a sheet of tin foil. The sheriff set the foodstuff in the fire pit astride the flames for a calculated number of moments before he fished it out with a stiff branch he kept to prod the fire. Carefully picking the foil away, he revealed to his comrades a sticky mess of a dessert that would pleasantly chase down the rather plain sandwiches they had eaten just before building the fire.

"Your sweet tooth is unbecoming," Cullen remarked, his voice the range of a raspy old tenor. "I thought you would've grown up by now."

Deacon didn't let the harassing sour his spirits, though he would still not let the old codger have the last word if he could help it. He ingested a small bit of the stuff, making sure Cullen witnessed.

"And I thought you'd be pushing up grass in the cemetery by now," he retorted as nonchalant as he could muster. Cullen gave a gruff chortle and grinned at his young successor, visibly judging his character as would a magistrate to a petty criminal.

Deacon forced a grimace. "My god, I hope your face doesn't get stuck like that!" Cullen's expression didn't change, and he probably even took delight in the reaction it garnered.

Matilda chose to interject, less for her own humors than for the lack of humor their negativity brought upon everyone else.

"You do in fact take an obsession to honey," she said.

"Stuff of the gods, new and old," Deacon replied merrily.

Matilda looked at him plainly, though she wanted to laugh. "Stuff of an insect's vomit," she said rather acutely. She wasn't necessarily pleased that Deacon's face lost some of its merry glow, but she at least felt she contributed in a less menacing fashion.

The group chatted altogether for awhile, keeping both the fire and their voices low. An hour after the sky had darkened completely they all turned in with the exception of Bondrey, who was first to keep lookout. The blacksmith took the position willingly, ever eager to make use of his traps. After setting them in the most strategic points he could fathom, he sat in wait while everyone else took to their cots.

But Deacon didn't intend to sleep. He prodded Jefferson before he could fully be under. The boy's head rose with the pained look of drowsiness.

"Lad!" Deacon whispered sharply, trying to bring his friend to his senses. "Come, get up! We've a mission to accomplish this night."

Jefferson was confused, immediately assuming that Deacon intended for them to claim the glory of the hunt for themselves. Once his mind became more alert he realized such a plan would be foolish at best and waited to hear more.

"We're going to town," Deacon added. "Reconnaissance, you know? I'm sure someone will have a lead there."

"I'm fairly certain that reconnaissance means to survey the land, not ask for others' surveys," Jefferson retorted in a dreary monotone.

Deacon landed the back of his hand hard on the boy's chest, forcing him awake even more. "Enough of that, smartass, " he said barely above his previous whisper. "Let's go 'investigate', then."

Jefferson blinked a few times until he felt himself truly coming to. "Fine," he said grudgingly, throwing off his woolen blanket and rising.

The two conceded to informing the blacksmith of their intent, realizing they couldn't hope to sneak by him as he kept watch. Even if they could leave without his notice, the prospect of accidentally locating one of his traps seemed most gruesome.

"To the 'Crossing?" Bondrey exclaimed in a low voice.

"Yes. I believe that Shanley's Tap may have some knowledgeable patrons," Deacon said.

"The inn?" Bondrey looked incredulously at the two seeking to leave. "Gotdamn, why not just have us bunk there for the night in the first place?"

Deacon rolled his eyes. "They barely have enough room for our number, additional guests notwithstanding."

"It's Lower Crossing," Bondrey reminded him flatly. "No one visits that shit pit if they can help it."

"Exactly," Deacon said, his eyes widening with facetious revelation. "You should be thankful we have our camping gear." Bondrey groaned at the remark. "Besides, the mayor didn't allow us enough funds to pay for bedding."

This time it was Bondrey who rolled his eyes. "Then the point was moot already," he said. "You should've said that in the first place." He threw his arm out toward the hamlet's direction. "Be off with ya. And if you've even a beggar's purse of gold left from our funding, you'll bring me back a skin of ale."

Deacon nodded once with a grateful smile. "You'll have your ale, Crook."

He trotted off in the appointed direction with Jefferson in tow, the chirping of crickets heavy on the foggy night air. They heard Bondrey's sharp whisper a few yards out, barely making earshot through the din of musical insects.

"To your left."

Deacon halted, holding Jefferson in place while he spied the bear trap. He waved back at the blacksmith in gratitude and ensured a wide berth around the device.

They reached Sucker Brook only moments later and found a row of stones to cross over. Jefferson, however, was far less traveled and nimble, lacking the balance of his partner and lost his footing, staying upright but catching the attention of the leeches were his foot landed in the water. Deacon pulled off the parasites once Jefferson made it across, assuring the boy that it would have been more painful if they had time to entrench their maws.

The inn was an easy find once the two entered Lower Crossing. They entered and found only three patrons, one planted at the bar while the other two sat at a table together, conversing about the labors of their day. The bartender generally ignored everyone, spending as much of his idle time wiping down glossy surfaces with a rag and picking at splinters on the counter's edge with his pocket knife.

Deacon pushed Jefferson ahead and goaded him into taking a seat on a barstool. The bartender still ignored them even as Deacon sat next to his friend and splayed his arms on the countertop, making himself exceptionally comfortable in this public setting. He then sat up straight and rapped a knuckle on the smooth countertop.

"Jigger of whiskey," he ordered, producing a small purse of jingling coins.

The barman seamlessly dropped his automated routine to pull a tall bottle of tan liquid from a shelf and pour some of its contents into a small glass. He pushed it toward Deacon without letting a drop of the spirits splash over its rim and rested one outstretched finger on the counter for him to see. Deacon pulled a single gold fingerweight from his pouch and dropped it in front of the barkeep's signaling hand for him to pick up and pocket. Deacon then took up the glass of whiskey and, before quaffing it, reconsidered and placed it squarely in front of Jefferson, who looked quite unsure about the offer.

"Drink up," he told the young man. Jefferson glanced at the glass and back at Deacon, curling his fingers around it while hesitating to drink. "Come on," he urged. "Puts hair on your chest."

"I already have hair on my chest," Jefferson replied without missing a beat.

"Good, it'll add some more. Now drink up."

The young man felt embarrassed as he looked down at the jigger, the patron sitting a few stools away obviously laughing at the exchange. He lifted the glass to his nose, already cringing as his tender senses tried to fathom the taste of hard liquor - it surely wouldn't be reminiscent to the home-brewed ale that his father concocted.

"All at once," Deacon encouraged. "The faster it goes down, the less you taste it."

Jefferson took the advice and bottomed the tiny glass. Unaccustomed to the trajectory which liquids take to the back of one's throat, he clumsily splashed the whiskey against his tongue and soft palate before it funneled by his tonsils. The burn of the stuff was overwhelming, and even as he clenched his eyelids shut, determined to swallow hard, his gag reflexes hoisted the liquid as thoroughly as possible. What didn't spray forth and dribble from the corners of his mouth stayed against his throat, and he coughed wretchedly as one would who inadvertently breathed their own saliva.

Deacon instinctually would have laughed, but instead composed himself and gently patted the boy's back.

"There, there," he comforted. "Don't worry, it's an acquired taste. I don't suppose you feel more hairs sprouting beneath your shirt?"

Jefferson shook his head, red in the face and tears streaming as the uncomfortable retching ran its course. "No," he said with a scratchy voice," it feels like my chest and stomach is burning."

Deacon beamed for the remark. "Then you managed to keep some of it down," he said, congratulating his young friend. "Splendid!"

"One for yourself?" the bartender asked, taking back the empty jigger from the boy.

Another golden finger was pulled from the pouch and placed across from Deacon on the counter. His wide grin dissipated, yet he still seemed happy to accept the offer. The new jigger of whiskey came and went, vigorously picked up by the lawman and quaffed in an instant, only the slightest hint of bitter recoil on his face.

Then he resolved to speak of business.

"So, barkeep," he began, throat dry and scratchy in spite of his tolerance for liquor. "I don't suppose you keep rumors in stock?"

The bartender took back Deacon's empty glass and immediately dunked it in a wash basin of soapy water, drying it dutifully with his trusty rag. "I'm not allowed to charge for information," he said, pausing to let a negative suggestion sink in. "I can't guarantee anything worth your while. If I like your question, you'll probably like my answer."

Deacon cocked his eyebrows, taken humbly by the response. "A fair agreement. So, would it be a sensitive issue if I asked of the escapees from Devil's Crossing?"

"The two?"

"From almost six weeks ago," Deacon affirmed.

The bartender nodded, seemingly unconcerned with the subject. "Aye, I know the two. Only by last names, though. One was Cronley, a rather fiery piece of work. The other is the whipping boy he claimed in prison, Yueler."

"Both of them bad news?" The bartender nodded, making eye contact for the first time. "And I'm fair to reckon that neither have wandered these parts since the escape?"

Again the barkeep nodded. "You'll not find them alone, if you're truly lookin'," he said sternly. "Heard they rallied some outlaws to join them. Couple of our own went missing, and we don't presume they'd have the guts to go apprehend them or die trying."

"Same as farther up the road," Jefferson said, finding his voice again. "My cousin's in with their lot now. I intend for us to take him back, and make graves of all the others."

A snarky look crossed the bartender's face. "Just the two of you?" He chuckled without waiting for an answer. "The two inmates are a feat to challenge all themselves. The laws of numbers don't aid you any greater."

Deacon puffed out his chest, thinking he would meet the warning gracefully. "We're a resourceful pair," he assured the barkeep. "Besides, there's a whole mob of folk like us, itching to gun the lot down. All they need is to know what direction to look."

"And that's the question of the day, then," the bartender deduced.

The inn was made silent then, as everyone held their breath after the ominous clicking of a pistol's hammer being pulled into place. The patron who originally sat alone at the bar was standing, a shiney six-shooter trained on Jefferson's head. He seemed as though his mind was aquiver with anticipation, yet his body held rigid and true as a cold killer before his mark. His lower jaw wrenched back, a strange sort of malice directing his motions.

"There won't be an answer, either," the gunman finally said. "I've a bullet for everyone in this room, and one more to boot." His determined posture suddenly seemed undermined by the coming doubt in his voice. "Your lynch mob can't get their bearings if you're dead before they find you."

A gunshot sounded. It only just allowed him to finish his threat.

Jefferson's eyes remained wide, though he swore he must have blinked. He considered that such a short blackout was the bridge between life and death, and he now saw the world before him as a spirit unwilling to pass on.

He saw his assailant, wide-eyed as well. Jefferson was so fixated on the man's face that he couldn't notice the deformity that was now his throat. The picture expanded for him as the outlaw dropped his gun and fell to his knees, too weak and shocked to bring his hands to cover the wound. It was such a mess, though, that his trachea was hit and shattered, blood gushing from both sides of his neck while a growing well of deep purple overtook the front. He tried to speak, but could scarcely manage a gurgle before collapsing to one side, head landing hard on the wood floor.

Cullen Duprie entered the inn, his revolver by his side, old and discolored. He stepped over the outlaw's corpse and took a seat at the bar, expecting an acknowledgement or offer of service.

"Jigger of whiskey?" Deacon managed to ask, taken aback despite his acquaintance with conflict.

"Three of 'em," the old man answered. He pulled a silver hand from his pocket and set it on the counter along with an empty waterskin. "Rinse this and fill it with your finest ale," he added to the bartender. "Will this be adequate compensation?"

The barkeep looked at the silver coin and nodded approvingly.

"Good." Cullen fished out a golden finger and placed it atop the silver, meaning to tip the proprietor for his trouble. Three small glasses were set before him and quickly filled before the barkeep corked the bottle and took the waterskin and money.

Cullen knocked back a jigger of the liquor, not affected by its burn in the slightest.

"Goddamn pups can't have a brain in your skulls," he scolded while taking up the second glass. "Only two or three of 'em would be noticed in the area." He emptied the glass and quickly wrapped his fingers around the third. "Didn't even have the sense to watch for others scampering about.

"Oh, and it's hard to bring Bondrey the ale he requested without even taking a skin to fill!"

Deacon stared at the three glasses of liquor as their contents disappeared in rapid succession. He hated to admire that old codger, and in the deepest corner of his soul he knew that he owed him his thanks. He knew even better that he was loathe to give it, regardless of the circumstances.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"I heard you've had a lovely few evenings with Dorothy."

Irving perked, the brightest beam on his face. Charlotte felt sour from her conversation with Jeremy three days prior, constantly of the assumption that her crewmates all held an ugly disdain for her presence. She proactively sought pleasing conversations wherever she could to hide her sensitivity.

"Aye, she's such a lady," Irving replied sweetly.

Three other crewmembers sat with him and Charlotte in Homestead's less prestigious tavern, two of which at an adjacent table. They laughed, quite familiar with the lack of sarcasm at the compliment. It was a mystery to all on the ship, how such a bitter and crass woman had ensnared Irv in this romance for the last three years. More mysterious still is that such a woman would care to entertain a romance in the first place.

No one questioned him openly, though; happiness was a rare delicacy that even a band of dishonest folk didn't care to let spoil. After all, Dorothy may not be overladen with social graces, but she was surely a fine sight to behold when one wakes. Her fiery disposition probably lent itself to her lovemaking as well. If given time enough to consider, one might simply call her a "spirited" woman, in all favorable context of the word.

Irving suddenly snapped from his daydreaming, a look nearly of dread. "Shit! I have to get to her! Need to leave!"

"Does she have you on a schedule?" a crewmate from the other table asked.

Irving didn't hear him, bumbling about himself to find the cork for the bottle of wine he ordered. He already seemed flustered that he drank so much of the bottle, repeatedly stopping to peer down its spout as he hurriedly ran his hand around and underneath the table. Eventually he grabbed the cloth napkin he borrowed from the barmaid, rolled and balled it as tightly as he could and stuffed it into the bottle's spout.

As he stood to rush out of the place, Charlotte clasped his shoulder and forced him back down, requiring a generous sum of her meager strength.

"Calm yourself and drink some more," she insisted, tugging the napkin out from the bottle. Irving's urgency subsided only partially as he leant his attention to her. "You'll have all winter to visit yet. And you won't even have to contend with her business with us this year!"

"She's expecting me," Irving said, unsettled though complying with Charlotte's demand to stay.

"I don't doubt it," another sailor laughed.

Irving shook his head and conceded that he would stay with his mates. Dorothy could stay angry with him only so long. A single slap upside his head after another month or two of travel would see her fury through well enough.

"Love hurts," he said absently, remembering how hard those slaps could be. His crewmates' laughter rolled over him.

He might not have worried, or have even made this significant arrangement to begin with, if the Weeping Wight wasn't going to depart the next day. The captain decided that a final delivery would be worth their while for the year, though the contents being loaded on the ship were questionable. Jecca had declined to say, and Petra even seemed to be kept at arm's length from the whole deal. The goods were kept in odd crates, wooden and nailed shut as most, but then trapped by two sets of iron brackets bound by thick padlocks. The devices seemed foreign, though few of the sailors and dock hands involved with the loading complained since the brackets suspended the crates enough to get a grip on their undersides.

The crew at the inn stole away from doing any manner of the labor, preferring to "heighten their morale" for the betterment of everyone. Jecca and Petra didn't partake of the relaxation, at least not with Charlotte and her companions. It's suspected they gave patronage to the Benwith farmstead, who were insightful enough to pass along the delivery's details to Jecca the day before.

The ship would clear the harbor at dawn with the cargo, headed out of the bay and making the delivery to Pearl Peak. The only risk they observed was that the buyers didn't intend to pay in gold, rather preferring a clean barter with some valuable stones and jewelry not yet heard of. The Benwiths felt that they could be dissuaded to a degree, however, talked down to a low yield of the jewelry and filling the remainder with banknotes. None of the crew could imagine a quick turnover for the baubles, and a large sum of their coin was spent on the goods being delivered.

Unsure as they were of the outcome, the five at the inn made merry all the same, with the exception of the anxious Irving. He seemed all the more tense as the accordionist wallowed in his tunes, all of which seemed miserable since Irving was prevented from fleeing to see Dorothy. Perhaps it was his own self-pity that made the songs seem somber, though there came unmistakably foreboding lyrics which drew the attention of his comrades as well.

_Lass, Oh m'dearie, _

_how lov-a-lee you shine!_

_Sir, Oh good heavens,_

_You've run out of time._

_The night held no quarter_

_for the gentleman so cruel,_

_as for the lady, yessir,_

_ne'er again will he fool!_

Charlotte willed it to be a coincidence, but she could still see Irving's mounting discomfort.

"Come, let's pay for our rooms and retire," she said to her crewmates, Irving in particular.

His face stretched from chin to brows, a thick contortion of surprise and dread. "Not likely," he replied sharply. "We'll retire to the ship."

"But the ship is already moored away from the docks," said another crew member. "You mean to row back and sleep in a hammock instead of the mattresses here?"

Irving nodded emphatically. "Most certainly, and I'll be taking the bard along with us." He fished through his pockets for his purse and loose coin. "He'll compose a damn fine lullaby for the night, you'll see!"

His crewmates sat gawking as he made his offer to the musician, fully expecting the initial hesitation and then taken aback when they apparently struck a deal and the accordionist began packing up his instrument. Irving went back to their table and collected the bottle of wine, an empowered expression on his face. He looked upon the others and scoffed at their bewildered looks.

"What?" he exclaimed. "Be merry, will you! We're making ready for our last voyage this year, and I've just spent every last coin in my possession. Brighten up!"

Charlotte could no longer ignore the obvious. The bard came at such a high price to ensure he wouldn't communicate with Dorothy that night. Though she wasn't convinced it would buy Irving any relief in the long run, she better understood the relationship at hand. One had to be special to command both love and fear with such intensity, that desperate acts of self-preservation could cost a small fortune without so much as a blink.

* * *

Henry sat at his dining table with Jecca and Petra, the rest of his family retired to bed. He stared down the captain, a look of soft judgment on him.

"You must not hold much regard for kin," he said, gesturing toward Petra. "Shouldn't he know, if not because he's your first mate?"

Jecca denied the scowl that his instincts demanded. "I don't suspect you've been a corsair yourself, old man?" Henry shook his head, amused by the implied rationale. "The relationship between family and crewmates of any rank are customarily different."

Henry then chuckled and nodded facetiously while looking down to his cold mug of tea.

"Aluminum wire," he said plainly, ignoring Jecca's sigh of protest. "Coils of 'em, for the Empire's science funding."

Petra didn't understand. "Wire, for science? Do scientists mean to build fences with it?"

"No laddy," Henry answered. "Aluminum is a metal, often used in place of copper for electrical conduction."

"Fancy talk for an old farmer," Jecca interjected. He showed a degree of jealousy as well as anger with Henry. "Is that how you've given me so many leads? Conspiring with the government? Or did you use to be an official?"

"I'll entertain no such notion," Henry said coolly. "A man doesn't need to be important to enjoy a scholarly read or two." He grinned wryly at Jecca. "Likewise an important position on a ship's roster shan't have time for more than ignorance."

Jecca's defensiveness reached a threshold, and he was oddly silenced. There wasn't a point to fighting with one's elders, condescending as they tend to be. There was a matter of truth to the criticism anyhow, Jecca admitted to himself, though not eager to admit he was in any station of importance. Few look up to a leader of outlaws aside from little boys who dream of action and adventure. He had no reason not to pick up a book or two, or have learned to read better than an adolescent in the first place.

"Aye, but the salt in your hair seems to have dried your brain to a brick!" Petra said playfully. He hid his amusement at the scene, knowing he did poorly to feign support for his brother. Instead he seemed all the more blatant in his desire to outdo Jecca. Somehow he thought being the victim in this context gave him entitlement.

Henry laughed while the red drained from Jecca's face, which seemed to flare all the brighter at Petra's intervention. It made him feel weak. Petra's natural ambitions as a younger brother was far from his list of concerns, however. He cared only for how he was perceived, ultimately not believing that anyone cared for his job. It wasn't such a desirable one anyway, he thought.

"Figure that I'm stuck in my ways, yeah?" Henry eyed Petra, then looked to his older brother, who he felt was the instigator. "I reckon so," he conceded, curling his chapped lips to wet them. "You shouldn't blame me. I sure as hell don't.

"You know where wisdom comes from?" he asked, pausing to indicate that it wasn't a rhetorical question.

"Age?" Petra guessed.

Henry shook his head. "Age is part of it, but no." He gazed down to the dinner table and gave it two firm knocks with his knuckles. "This is windaega wood, right here. Hardest lumber in all Cairn. Ever wonder how it gets so?"

Most average citizens knew something of the stuff, yet it was such a rare and expensive material that gets overlooked for its obscurity. Rich folk didn't even buy furniture made from it, or use it as building material, for it was such an ugly, gnarled bit of lumber.

The brothers sat silently, knowing there was a point to be heard.

"It's felled from the jungles on our continent, farthest you can get to the southeast," he began, wildly motioning toward the wrong direction with his hand. "There grows a tree called the winda, and it's mostly used for its pitch. Makes a fine syrup if you caramelize and sweeten it enough. But the old tribes found out how to build with it, too.

"They'd cut the trees down and split 'em as best they could," he continued, making a chopping motion with his hand. "Right awful job it was, too. The stuff's so gnarled that half the work was balancing the timber. Not to mention all the knots they had to fuss with. Then they took all those curvy, ugly boards to the Silver Sands, just north of them. Then they stuck 'em as deep in the sand as needed to make sure they kept standing straight.

"They'd let each board age for five years, once they got it down to a science. Five years of being blasted by dry winds and fine grit sand. It lost its moisture, lost its color, barely even had weight to it anymore. But the stuff was getting mineralized in the process, too, and that fine amount of silver sand in its deep grain would stay there and help 'lock in' its integrity. Then they planed the wood down to the skinny boards you see on this table, and slathered on some mixture of sap and who-knows-what for finish."

Henry ran his fingers along the tabletop, admiring the sheen its finish still held and the patterns beneath it.

"All this color is from the finish, by the way," he added. "The dark strips aren't grain at all, but the thickness of the varnish since the dried wood has such deep crevices. Soaks the stuff right in the first couple passes.

"And I suppose I meant to arrive at a point," Henry said, aware of his rambling.

"At your leisure," Jecca said, cordially enough not to seem snide.

Henry scratched the back of his head. "Moral of the story is with the desert part," he said, voice bristled from embarrassment. "It's not so much the time that refines a person, it's the grit and wind. Humility. All the times we fail at something and take scrapes from someone, it all serves to humble and toughen us up. Once you're well-aged, whenever that might be, that's when you get your finish, and all the lessons that got beaten in gets sealed into place.

"So am I going to think like you someday?" Jecca asked.

Henry's brows furrowed. "I should hope not!" he said, laughing at himself. "Everyone learns different lessons from different opinions in a different order. I'll be damned if you come out sounding like me, lest I'll have to strangle you for stealing away with my wife for four decades!"

The brothers loosened up, sharing the laugh with their old friend. True enough that they came from different generations and careers - the combination thereof akin to differing cultures - yet they intersected with whatever small joys they could appreciate together. The business was only the beginning, and it still remained the end of every discussion, try though they might to simply enjoy an evening of company.

They finished talking about the finer details of the delivery, Petra fully included. It was a sanctioned trade and they wouldn't be apprehended for any crimes in the recent past, though the Empire never took into account that pirates would be making the delivery. The fantasy of being granted amnesty was a short-lived glint on the brothers' eyes, then paled over in humor since they would ultimately attract unwanted attention the next year.

The Weeping Wight would moor in Pearl Peak's docks and immediately meet with an officer of their guard, who would then escort them as they carted the goods south to Hatherton. A Dr. Tobias Kestrem would meet them at his manor and sign for the delivery. Supposedly he would be bargaining for the compensation as well, but Jecca suspected a man who lorded over machinery and electricity had little experience in valuing jewelry. Most likely there would be a broker, and Jecca knew he needed to appeal to Dr. Kestrem's if he wanted any advantage in getting the trade he desired. The man likely had a much higher station than whoever would be brokering the payment, and if he could get his say-so, at least a portion of the trade could be cushioned by currency.

Jecca and Petra stood to leave after a satisfactory reveal of the plan, both having a turn to shake Henry's hand. After a short hour of brisk walking they reached the Golden Reed Inn where they expected to find other members of their crew still awake and reveling in a day of rest and booze. With a cursory search and inquiry they learned that they cut away, possibly for the ship. The brothers were most confused when the bartender complained about the bard who shortsold him to pack in with the ship's crew.

"Another mouth to feed," Petra commented cynically as they left the building and made their way to the waterfront.

"Don't concern yourself, brother," Jecca said, content. "We've a full store of food and the man can suitably pull his weight."

"With a musician's fingers?" Petra scoffed. "He'll not have a callus on his whole body!"

Jecca laughed knowingly. "Aye, but there's a heavier weight than ropes and chains, brother. Sometimes a spirit in need of lifting is heavier than anything."

Petra conceded to the notion, though in truth he didn't want to agree with his brother. There's no practicality in pandering to the emotional needs of an individual. If one doesn't find relief in a job well done, he believed, then there's a philosophical difference that can only mean trouble.

But this crew had functioned well for over five years with only minor changes. Preserving the status quo would be worth cradling those that required conditioning, or so he wanted to believe. Holding true to the premise would keep his hide safe, that was the important part.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Shall we continue along the coast, or make the 'round again?"

Humbrey unloaded a heavy bag of cookware onto the cart, slipping it from across his shoulders so gracefully before it made a great clash. He pondered the question momentarily, looking Fenrick in the eyes as the boy held a rolled quilt over his arms. The load seemed unwieldy for such a small carrier, despite the meager weight of it.

"What say you, lad?" he whispered to Fen. "Ready to take on the Silver Sands?"

Fenrick's eyes widened, shaking his head emphatically.

"Due south," Humbrey then answered, glad that his ward still prevented them from making the full coastal journey to the southern regions. "We'll pass through Icarod's Mill this time and swing back to the west from there."

The inquiring rhowari dropped a load of supplies in the cart as well and looked at him quizzically. "What in the world could we salvage from an old lumber town?"

Humbrey feigned a startled grunt. "Why, what else?" he asked merrily. "But frog's legs and truffles."

The nearest assortment of rovers laughed heartily. "Never took myself for a fungivore," a woman said in jest. Another man added, "Beats having to listen to Jorah's incessant moaning."

Lein agreed. "Aye, for a man regarding himself as hospitable to us, he's yet to learn that sharing negativity doesn't hold true to the nature."

The caravan finished loading their goods and made ready to leave Hatherton. Fenrick couldn't tell the difference between Jorah Walker's rambling and his own clan's. It made him especially glad to be pushing off from the place, for his people could seldom hold a conversation while in motion.

Bentley raced up to Fenrick's side as they neared the southern boundary of the village, excitedly directing his attention toward a campsite. Bentley had told his younger friend of the site days before, but they counted only two small tents together.

"I swear there were five!" Bentley exclaimed in a low voice. He was already notorious among the caravan for making mischief, though he strived to keep attention away from himself when able.

"There's only two," Fen said plainly. "Probably a couple of trappers." The scene looked as much, though it wasn't likely to trap any of the skittish animals so close to town, nor was there purpose in camping when the trappers' homes were a short walk away.

"No, no," Bentley insisted, truly concerned. He bore a grave expression. "They were wearing bright red clothes and talked of strange things. They knew I was spying on them all three times, and I'm sure they'd do me harm if they caught me."

"And it would serve you right," Fenrick spat, not intending to sound as distasteful as he did. "Truly, three times? Why would you even go back if they knew?"

Bentley shrugged. "They only called me 'the boy', like they didn't know who I was. I figure that means they wouldn't know where to find me so long as I got away."

"And we'd all have to bear the trouble if you were wrong," Fenrick said, giving his friend a shove.

They bickered only a little longer before falling sway to the silence of the road, although Lein assisted by separating them for a time.

It took the better part of the day to reach Icarod's Mill, the sun's light nearly expired over the horizon as the caravan moseyed into town. Despite its age, it was less populated than Hatherton and most other settlements, though its development was spread over a greater area. The cabins were small and seemed lonely, dissected as they were, separated by fruit trees and ill-kempt brush.

The mill itself was by far the oldest building, consisting of a platform and a pair of rails for a conveyor which led into a circular sawblade. The labor was hard, requiring two men to carefully roll timber onto the conveyor while another, typically the stronger of the three, operated the heavy crank on the side of the building. Maintenance was all the more important in recent years, as the mechanism's gears would rust and stiffen with only a week's negligence until no one could push the crank at all.

True to their assumptions, the only supplies of worth they could barter for were the local black truffles and a small simulated habitat of bullfrogs kept in a glass case sealed by a wooden lid. They traded in some extra small craftwork of theirs for a deposit, which would be refunded in a manner if they returned the glass case unharmed. Some of the rovers chided that they could devour its entire contents of frogs in one meal - assuming they could stomach the otherwise acquired taste - and leave the habitat behind, while Job, their unofficial chef, reasoned that the taste could be dulled into something more pleasant and spiced if they rationed them out into stews.

The caravan also acquired small blocks of wood from freshly felled linden trees to keep the whittlers at their crafts - less for barter value than to simply keep their minds off senseless gossip. A married couple sat with their knives already, occupying themselves by shearing away the soft wood while Lein continued talking with two of the hamlet's chief members. Fenrick sat in wait as well, recognizing that they only waited for their tradesman to finish making idle conversation now that business was already done.

A small dusty boy walked up to Fenrick, easily two years younger or more. Fenrick was surprised, noticing the dirt and sawdust on his arms and face, his posture strong and bent backward as one would walk with arms full of heavy material. He looked Fen in the eyes while pointing to the whittling couple.

"Who are they?"

Fenrick looked in the indicated direction. "Oh, that's Rose and Terrance," he answered, sounding casual despite wondering why he was asked.

"They're good at whittling," the boy commented.

Fenrick looked again, almost laughing. "They just started. They haven't even made shapes yet."

The boy shrugged as if it didn't matter. "They do it so fast," he said. "They must know how to do it good."

"Well," Fenrick corrected, remembering it wasn't long ago that he understood so little of grammar. "They know how to do it well." The strange boy nodded quickly, pretending that he knew better already. "What's your name?"

"Henrik," he answered quickly and with pride.

Fen smiled. "Mine's Fenrick," he offered without being asked, thinking it a funny similarity.

Henrik laughed boisterously, apparently enjoying it even more. "We're like brothers, huh?" he said between gulps of juvenile cackles. When he calmed enough he offered his alternative. "You can call me Henri. It's easier."

"Then you should call me Fen," Fenrick reasoned. "A lot of people do anyway. And it still sounds different."

"Sounds good," Henri said conclusively, then scooped a tiny rectangle of wood from his only pant pocket. "Hey Fen, want to do some with me? I'm pretty good, too."

Fenrick smiled but dismissed the idea. "Rose and Terrance have been asking to teach me for a long time," he said. "I think they would be mad if I said yes to you."

Henri was insistent. "Don't worry!" he said, pushing the wooden block into Fenrick's hands. He acted as many a lonely child did to Fenrick's knowledge; desperate to hold the attention of someone they considered a new friend. Henri then pulled out a knife with a more customary shape for whittling, its blade less than half the length of its wooden grip. He held the knife out to Fenrick, blade first, then blushed and flipped it around when he caught himself being unsafe.

"Fine," Fenrick said, carefully taking the knife from his eager new friend.

He made two passes on the wood, shearing thick chunks from one of its corners. The feeling was almost exhilarating, as though he was accomplishing something by altering that small block. Fen found the act bedazzling as he watched his clan do it, wondering how something as firm as wood could be worked so skillfully - or at all - with anything less than an axe. It was almost an epiphany, one where he could see that even small strides would amount to a grand becoming when taken altogether. But he was too young and naive to identify the lesson, and simply took joy in the tangible craft on its own.

When he finished the block was a mess. Fenrick began without any inspiration, deciding along the way to try for a sword. The end result was no more than an asymmetrical cross riddled with coarse welts. Fen would have felt discouraged if Henri wasn't still grinning at him.

"First time," the boy said rather neutrally.

He held his hand out to Fen, unclear if he meant to take the knife back or the misshapen wood. Fenrick started to place the knife in the asking palm, met with a sudden shake of Henri's head. He remembered the caution from when it was given first and gripped the blade instead, then offering the knife's handle first. Again the strange boy shook his head.

"Keep it," he said, motioning for the remains of his block of wood. "I want that."

"Why?" Fenrick was amazed that anyone would be interested in such a bungle. He didn't wait for the answer though, willfully placing it in the soliciting palm.

Henri beamed, ear to ear. "Most kids throw their first ones away," he replied, carefully handling the skinny piece of wood. "But I like them. It's good practice."

"Practice for what?"

Henri's grin became more boyish, unsure how he would describe it. "Finishing," he finally said. He gave another hard look at Fen's work. "It's supposed to be a pick axe, right?"

A single spurt of laughter escaped Fenrick's lips. "Sure," he said sarcastically, then revoked his intent on correcting him. "I like gemstones and, and stuff." He was sure Henri wouldn't believe him after the forced explanation.

Henri's grin sucked into a pursing as he imagined the glittering treasure himself. "Ooh, yeah!"

The subject made him think of Pearl Peak and its mines. Then he remembered Hatherton, specifically the curious people that Bentley described. It seemed possible that the missing tents might have been their members who left, maybe even the same direction.

"Did you see anyone come through here in the last few days?" Fenrick asked. He kept his voice low and looked around them, less concerned about the other adults than if Bentley himself would poke his ever-curious head into things.

"No," Henri said sweetly as he fondled the carved wood, not truly considering the question.

"No one from the north, wearing bright red?"

Henri took his eyes away from the object and gave Fenrick his attention. He paused a moment, digging for memories he knew weren't there. Giving up, he shook his head.

"No one from the north," he said more decisively. The specificity of the question caused him to be more curious. "Who are they, friends of yours?"

"No," Fen said plainly. "Just people we saw in Hatherton. Nothing special."

He was glad for the answer, only then able to put the subject to rest. Only Bentley was worked-up about the men in red, and it could stay that way as far as Fenrick was concerned. There were enough menacing things in the world, especially for transients surrounded by the dark of wilderness more nights than not.

The two boys didn't speak for much longer, Fenrick deciding when the meeting should adjourn. He approached Lein, nearly tugging the man's sleeve, who then realized he had been gossiping for too long and thus concluded.

"Sorry lad, we can go now," Lein whispered after he turned away from the hamlet's delegates. Fenrick patted his arm to assure he was forgiven.

As the rest of the caravan gathered their goods and readied the carts, Rose tapped Fen's shoulder.

"I saw you made a friend," she said slyly.

The boy blushed, afraid she would be upset that he took on whittling without her. "His name's Henrik," he said straightforwardly.

"I met him last time we came by," Rose said, a splendid perk in her voice. "Two years ago now, I believe? Maybe more. Sweet child, and I don't think he'd remember us."

"I don't think he does, either," Fen commented with a chuckle.

"That's okay." Rose put a hand on Fenrick's shoulder, who was calmed of his guilt. "I'll have to say 'hello' next time. Supposing that you're not ready to make the trip around Bricanttia by then."

A full revolution around the continent was still terribly daunting to the boy, who may be the only youth of the caravan not willing to do so. The prize of experience in the longer, more inhospitable legs of the trek was appealing to most children, especially to the boys. Something held Fen at bay, and it was only his great fortune that the elders pitied him enough to allow his say-so in the matter. It wouldn't be much longer before the coddling ended.

"Supposing I am," he squeaked, "may we take the route through here instead of the coast?"

Rose smiled at him tenderly and rubbed his back. "I can't imagine why not," she replied, a tangible sweetness in her quiet voice. "So long as we head north and picked up grain in Hatherton, I don't think we'd give a damn either way."

Fenrick flinched as the woman added emphasis to the curse word. He knew she wasn't upset, and walked steadily by her side as the rest of his clan spurred into motion. Rose then flicked the exposed wooden handle of a knife that rocked about in his shirt's pocket. Fen blushed again, but she kept on smiling.

"Make sure you hang on to it," she said. "I'm certain Henrik will be pleased to see you again."

Fenrick nodded, though he felt guilty that he didn't try to offer its return at least once more. It seemed to be a well-made tool, despite its simplicity. He managed to retrieve his concern once he realize that they were a village economically dependent on wood; they must have countless spares.

The road was blanketed with the falling leaves, the breadth of the trees being the only visible indication that they were still on the road. Other children trudged and kicked through the noisy fall foliage, once again taking pleasure in the act. Rose was still by his side, watching him by her periphery. She smirked, favoring the side of her face that Fenrick couldn't see, while she noticed him pretending not to launch the leaves with his own elongated strides.

A bit of joy would go a long way for him, she thought. Maybe she would ask him to whittle with her and Terrance again, now that he muscled through his first embarrassing trial. Or perhaps she would just kick and stomp about in the leaves herself. Adults didn't have need to be so damned humorless anyway, she thought.

Fenrick mimicked her playfulness, if only for awhile and without engaging the other children. It was progress enough for the day.


	12. Chapter 11

Jefferson huffed wearily as he cleared a hill behind the rest of his hunting party. The lad was far from his best condition since the incident in Lower Crossing, a great deal of his muscle burdened by the weight of grisly conflict just two days and a night prior. The rest of the group might have been annoyed with him were they not preoccupied with their ongoing difficulties in tracking their quarry.

They had traveled north and back again, exhausting many prospective locations, sometimes twice, giving some credibility that the hunted men were in fact following them and would leave signs. No such fortune visited the discouraged vigilantes, and there was no indication that Matilda was excited or alarmed by their progress. A woman accustomed to tracking small mammals felt lost indeed when unable to find the bootprints of several lumbering humans.

Cullen Duprie had taken the lead from her. It discouraged Jefferson as he watched, panting, while the old-timer strode on with everyone else in tow. But he knew there was resolve in those strides, which meant something in the wake of fruitless tracking. Strangely enough, Matilda wasn't averse to the change. She even showed some familiarity with the ex-constable's reasoning, which always seemed to be just out of Jefferson's earshot.

By midday they arrived at a hermit's tent, a site previously avoided once. Jefferson made certain to keep close to the head of the group by this time, slightly perturbed as Cullen said, "Yup, my old informant." The scene grew clearer when Cullen decided to stay behind as the rest of the group approached the tent.

Deacon was pushed to the front. It was thought that someone bearing the appearance of a local lawman would brook some recognition, though if Cullen thought himself discomforting for the task, perhaps a lawman in general wasn't the best choice. Crook, gruff and hard-working, might appear more amiably before the informant. It was guesswork, though, since Cullen wasn't gracious enough to explain what led the man to this hermitage.

Matilda was the first to spot the man, propping himself up from a cot inside, sheltered by the shadow of his tent. Deacon only noticed after the man crawled out, planting himself in front of the tent's opening with legs sprawling in front. He regarded the approaching party with an absent grin, stopping short of actual speech. Deacon was less than certain that the man was pleased to see them.

"A fine midday to you, sir," Deacon boomed as cordially as he thought the hermit would tolerate.

The hermit's expression, decidedly sarcastic, opened into a more receptive beam.

"Aye, I suppose it is."

Deacon's bottom lip quivered, surprised by the pleasantry. "Might I have your name, sir?"

"Well, it ain't 'sir'," the hermit answered, souring in disposition despite maintaining a smile. "Tom-ah-to Thomas," he then announced, using the short vowel of 'A'. "Or Tom-ah-to Tom."

Deacon, too tactful as a constable to question the name, was taken aback as a comrade of his threw the question forward instead.

"Why'd we call you that?" It was the accompanying constable, who barely uttered more than a grunt as he lugged about a proportionately large amount of gear for the party. He was just as young as Jefferson, although apparently more brash.

Tomahto Thomas thumbed the direction behind his tent, offering the party to look for themselves. Matilda and Bondrey checked on either side, noticing a generous amount of tomato plants growing in his proverbial backyard, many of the fruits ripe and undamaged by the elements.

"Tom-ay-toes," Deacon surmised aloud, not needing a visual for himself. The correction in pronunciation landed heavily on Thomas, his smile absorbed into a tight pursing of frustration.

"I prefer my way of saying it," Thomas said, his voice sharper. "It rolls off the tongue better with me real name."

Deacon nodded approvingly. "I concur, when you put it that way." He waited for the hermit's posture to relax. "Now, I don't suppose it would be a terrible bother if we asked about the area?" Tomahto Tom didn't relent with either a knowing or willing expression at first. "Aside from roaming astray, we're on the lookout for another group of folk. Numbered rather similarly to ourselves."

Tomahto Tom shook his head. "Can't say that I've seen another soul out this way, let alone a large pack like yourselves," he said. "You're not far from the living, though." He pointed directly ahead of him, toward the west. "Prison's a half-day's stroll that-a-way, and behind me's the Ash Caps. I reckon a good many groble caves are tucked away there, though."

Deacon and his comrades all knew their approximate location well enough. Deacon had only asked the two questions together to weigh the answers. The new sheriff, relatively inexperienced as he was, still knew well enough that the old informant was likely hiding something by eagerly answering the latter question first.

He conversed and cajoled in equal time, thinking he would eventually lead Thomas to loose the information he wanted. Matilda suspected it wouldn't work, thinking that the appropriate amount of time needed for such a discreet man would sooner end with his impatience rather than compliance. She used the time Deacon held his attention to peruse the scene.

With only a cursory glance inside the tent's opening she spotted a small linen purse with drawstring open, a faint glint of pale metal visible from inside. She understood the perceived secrecy then, knowing that this man would not have two coins to rub together if it weren't for someone who commissioned this story to be told.

She silently caught Deacon's attention, signaling with her eyes that they ought to be done with the scene.

"Well, my friend," he began conclusively, "I fear we should make our way back to 'the living'."

"It's been a pleasant chat," Tomahto Thomas added. "Visit again sometime, will you?"

Deacon bowed his head with an appreciative smile, choosing not to speak definitively on the suggestion.

As Deacon indicated, they traveled due west, Cullen meeting them from their southwestern approach after they were clear of the hermit's range. Matilda didn't say why they left without more effort, but Cullen assumed well enough that a battle of wits couldn't have been won. He knew some manner of payment must have been involved, and such a beggar didn't dare bite any hand that fed him.

On Matilda's direction, the party settled into camp not far away from the hermitage. It was still early in the day; even the exhausted Jefferson felt anxious hunkering down so soon. He watched Bondrey set out his traps, a common sight when they set up camp. This time made Jefferson nervous, for Bondrey was setting the traps under the supervision of Matilda, indicating something more substantial than precautionary measures.

The evening bore in and Jefferson had already slept away some of his weariness. He woke not for a fulfillment of rest, but for a deep-reaching sense that something was wrong. Deacon entered his tent then, glad that his teenage friend was already coming to. He seemed calm, an even look on his face.

"Evenin', lad," the sheriff greeted, crouching low. "Is Longbow ready?"

Only a second of dull senses passed before Jefferson's eyes snapped as wide as they could muster after their sleep. His hand went instinctively to his rifle, wrapped in cloth. Immediately he began working the sisal rope that held it closed, never taking his eyes away from his friend.

Deacon gave a nod of approval and left the small tent.

Jefferson exited his tent moments later, Longbow in hand, and looked on in surprise, taken strangely by Deacon's calmness when he saw the body lying on its side to the southeast of the camp. The only prevalent thought following was, "Is it Will?"

"Just another coulda-been," Deacon told him, anticipating the concern. "Harris knew him, one of the dockhands for a few years until he moved into Lower Crossing to be a sanitation man."

"I can't imagine he made a better living there," Jefferson commented, his trembling voice still hanging on the shock of the sight.

"You'd be surprised," Deacon replied, spitting on the ground. He had apparently taken up chewing tobacco to ease the stress of the manhunt. "Every job's worth it when the Empire pays your wages."

Matilda knelt by the body, gripping the arrow she landed above the bandit's collarbone, snapping it in two and gently sliding the shaft out. She dressed the wound with woolen rags and cotton, and then accepted a cord of rubber-coated wire from Cullen to be bound around his wrists. Jefferson felt less unsettled by reckoning the man was alive.

The party selected a fairly defensible area that day, tucked into a relatively clear niche in a copse of oak and pine trees. The thickness of the copse itself lent to decreased mobility and more effective trapping if the enemy circled and approached from the west, and the absence of low-limbed conifers gave fewer hiding places. From all other directions visibility was clearly on their side. The bandits meant to use the dim of evening to find a balance; they could still see while the defenders could see less. It wasn't very well thought out, Jefferson mused.

Harris pulled the hatchet from his belt and stood ready. Matilda reacted instantly and followed his line of sight toward the northeast. A small blast - probably a homemade grenade - sounded off in the direction they watched. Jefferson heard the bristly creaking as a mighty oak splintered from the explosion and toppled slowly over, almost concealing the volley of gunshots that came from due north.

Matilda was down on her stomach instantly while Harris fell to his back, his dominant arm seizing tightly in pain as its hand dropped the small axe.

Jefferson dropped to both of his knees, gratefully out of line with the shots fired. He took up his rifle and looked down its sights, unable to pick a target from such a distance. He tried to imagine the target behind his home that he plugged so skillfully without a visual, but realized he couldn't hit something that he had no previous bearing. Aside from the guerilla hiding tactics being used, the thin layer of smoke and powdery sawdust that drifted from the explosion threw his concentration.

A terrible cry came from the west then. Jefferson hoped they had found one of Crook's traps, but realized the voice was empty of agony. He watched a hunched figure, clad in only brown pants and blue war paint, weave through the last line of trees with a heavy sabre. He closed what distance he could, trying to get a jump on the tag-along constable who was successfully struck by fear at the noisome announcement. His spine erected, his hunch thrown back in the opposite arch as he gathered momentum behind a chop of his sword.

He dropped at the sound of a gunshot, the top of his head landing a heavy thud on the dirt as his posture lent to a near-backward somersault. Deacon ducked, watching for more incoming enemies with his pistol held up and ready. He meant to shout to his constable, but hoped that the boy's resulting collapse to the ground in fear would save him the trouble of giving himself up as an audible target.

Another volley from the north rattled in the distance, this time a bullet whizzing by Jefferson. His right hand tingled against Longbow's stock and his index finger found the trigger instinctively. It wasn't time to aim and fire, though - some unconscious sensation assured him that time would come soon.

Harris, still alive and able to assess his surroundings, pulled his pepperbox gun from its cylindrical holster and aimed toward the snipers from the north. Holding as steadily as possible, he looked toward Matilda and flashed a wide set of eyes at her. She saw and realized he was about to lend her covering fire. She ensured her bow was still secure over her torso and planted her palms squarely on the ground, ready to launch.

Harris' pistol opened into fire, its barrels throwing their weak pattering sound as the huntress sprung from the ground and dashed behind Harris toward the campsite to retrieve her quiver. She found a tree to hide behind while quickly stringing the quiver to her belt, barely flinching as multiple gunshots from the north ended in shrill zooms and cracks into the sheltering tree.

She readied an arrow against the bowstring, waiting to nock, suspicious of a gunner who withheld fire, waiting for her to expose herself. She spotted Harris who lied motionless, his gun empty after continuous fire. He hadn't been hit again, she surmised, though the enemy certainly tried to finish the job in the last volley.

Jefferson's rifle was up against his shoulder as Matilda's cover absorbed the barrage of ammunition. The tingle in his hand smoothed into a strange warmth which covered his entire right arm in a slow wave of energy. Instincts had brought the weapon to bear, and with only the slightest check down its sights he squeezed the trigger. The foe that Matilda guessed would be waiting for her dropped in the distance, his loss followed by a volley of curses rather than gunshots.

The enemies retreated from their cover to the north. The hunting party allowed themselves to relax for a moment, gathering their wits and equipment before determining the following events. Cullen and Deacon surveyed the bodies around the site. Deacon chose to check Harris personally, his softer disposition able to cleanly give bad news if needed. He said nothing, though Harris saw a disappointed look in him. The damage wasn't just to his right arm; Harris hadn't realized that a grievous wound on the right side of his abdomen soaked his shirt with blood.

Deacon and Cullen met back at the campsite with Bondrey and the scared constable. Jefferson kept his distance, feeling he should stay watchful, but was at least in earshot of the low voices.

"I think it took his liver," Deacon said of Harris' more serious wound.

"You think, or you know?" Cullen pried gruffly.

Deacon didn't credit him with a straight answer. "He's not going to live."

"Figures," Cullen replied. "These outings never do end cleanly." He stood quietly, a cold look in his eyes as he thought on the situation. "The first one still alive?"

"Yessir," Deacon answered assuredly.

"Good. Our savage friend from the trees took a real digger," Cullen said confidently. "Bullet to the chest and his neck snapped when he landed."

Cullen's lips trembled with the intent to speak, but never opened. Jefferson could only fathom that the old codger would have otherwise paid his successor a compliment for such a kill.

After the short tally, Bondrey pulled Harris back into camp and helped Matilda bandage the wounds, grimacing all the time, though he cared less for the young man than what his death would mean to his brother. Business relationship aside, Jensen Gaskith became one of very few personal friends to the dutiful blacksmith. He perceived this to be a loss in trust, and only then feared for the loss of a friend more than business.

Half an hour passed and the party spread out into watch posts, leaving Harris lying in his tent where he slowly slipped from life with no one to witness. It was ultimately more important to be ready, as the surviving bandits had plenty of time to regroup and find a new vantage point.

It was hard to imagine the remainder attempting another attack. With the confirmed numbers before the party left Burrwitch, the enemy band had lost half their men or more, four down in total since the standoff in Lower Crossing. An act of desperation was just as conceivable though, and a last stand could mean the difference between the slaying of their hunters and fleeing until caught anyway.

Jefferson held most vigilant of all and was the first to spot the charging foes from the southwest, clear of the copse of trees. They ran unhindered by the woods' flora, side-by-side, the last four of the band. They bore down on Jefferson, their closest target, with swords, axes and a single pistol among them. The gunman aimed beyond Jefferson and fired while one of his melee comrades came upon the lone hunter.

An ugly, chipped hand axe came down, its blade stopped by the wooden forend of Jefferson's rifle. The attack put Jefferson down on his back, and before the bandit's forward momentum carried him clear overhead, Jefferson caught the assailant's face, his own twisting into a snarl as he recognized his cousin. The axe pulled from Longbow as the dive carried through. Will rolled to his feet and ran for the copse to the west, spooked by the angry, familiar face he nearly hacked away.

Gunshots sounded all about Jefferson as the other three bandits passed by him and fell. He rose to one knee and took aim at his cousin, his shoulder searing in the strange heat from half an hour before as Longbow pressed snug against it. Jefferson aimed ahead of Will, waiting for his target to align before squeezing the trigger. The round passed through Will's lower right leg, ruining its calf muscle. Barely keeping upright, the final bandit hobbled along as quickly as he could until his wounded leg tripped a bear trap and was brought down.

Jefferson lowered his rifle and never took his eyes off the scene, trusting well enough that every other enemy had been dealt with and he was safe. The closing of their hunt was upon him with a proud realization: He had won the day.


End file.
